The Pariah
by Heath Wingwhit
Summary: Condemned and reviled in her clan, Merrill leaves her old life and heads to Kirkwall where she must fend for herself. Merrill x Hawke
1. Shems

A/N: It's been a while since I've done a Merrill story. This is based off the origins gameplay where she sort of becomes scared and resentful of humans. Eventual (awkward diplomatic) Hawke x Merrill.

* * *

Shemlens are dangerous. They take things away. The shemlen took Mahariel. The Tevinter magisters enslaved her people. The shemlen religion of the Chantry decimated their numbers. The shemlen have taken the elves immortality, their culture, their tongue. Merrill knows to be wary of them.

Her clan no longer speaks to her. They only open their mouths if they want to say something nasty. Merrill straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. She reminds them that she only seeks to aid them, to restore them to their past glory, to make them something more than a forgotten memory, to make them a people that will no longer be trampled on. No matter how brave her words are, it still hurts. It cuts so deeply that she goes numb. It cuts deeper than any knife.

She had been terrified the first time she took a blade to her skin.

Now all she does is argue with her clan. They ostracize her and each night she retreats further and further away from them in her tent. She eats meals alone, unless Marethari joins her. But every time she does join her there's a lecture, a warning, some advice. Why can't any of them trust her? At least now Marethari has agreed to let her leave the clan. That way she can work on restoring the Eluvian in peace.

Merrill is afraid Marethari has only let her leave because of the danger the clan poses to her. They're good people but would they attack her? Even Pol doesn't look at her anymore. She doesn't know where Kirkwall is. She has a faint idea but what will a shemlen city be like? Where will her people live? Where will she live? She's never been without her clan and it terrifies her.

She sighs softly, having climbed only partway up Mount Sundermount. Her fingers tickle along the blades of grass. She turns to see a party approach. There's a dwarf, a tall brunette with a staff, an elf with a sour expression on his face and beautiful markings on his skin. Leading the pack is a tall woman, clad in armor, a shield attached to her arm, a sword at her side. Her cropped hair, falling over her eyes, is the color of the setting sun, her eyes the brightest sparkling blue of the ocean. She's pale with rosy cheeks. There's a smear of red across her nose. Is it paint? Is it blood? Is it jam?

"Merrill?"

It has been so long since anyone has said her name as if it were a blessing. Her clan curses her name now. Merrill rises, her mouth gone dry. A shemlen has never stood so closely before. Merrill's heart pounds nervously. The woman smiles warmly. She introduces herself as Hawke.

* * *

Blood magic always drives them away.

The fear and reservation Merrill held for the woman and her companions quickly melted. Hawke was grateful for her aid as they made their way up the mountain. No one had ever thanked her before for using magic. Merrill was only glad to have helped— to have been able to help. It only emboldened her. She was on the right path. It was…nice to be able to do it with someone else, not just alone.

Still, no sooner had Merrill drawn the blade across her flesh that the light in Hawke's bright eyes dampened. Disgust washed over the other elf's face. And Hawke's sister – Bethany— had looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

It's always this way. Some part of Merrill understands their worry but she isn't like the others. She knows what she's doing. She's done more research over blood magic and the Eluvian than they could possible know what to do with. Creators, she knows more over magic than most do.

Why does it matter if they got what they needed to done? The necklace was put on the altar and Asha'Bellanar appeared. Imagine, meeting her! Imagine knowing the kinds of things she must know...

The trek back to the camp goes faster than climbing up the mountain with most of the corpses, spiders and shades cleared away. Fenris speaks mercilessly, attacking her at every opportunity, his tongue stilled only by a reminder of manners by Bethany, a wisecrack by Varric.

Hawke walks stonily down the mountain, looking to her now and then. She quickly looks away whenever Merrill turns her head to look at her. What is it about her, Merrill wonders, that Hawke finds so fascinating? Is it because she's never met a Dalish? She appears as unsettled as the others. She'd certainly admonished her, lashing out with the usual 'demon' talk that everyone does when they find out about her talents but… she doesn't know. It isn't as if she's ever braved looking shems in the face. Hawke's is dotted with blood.

"You'll still take me to Kirkwall, won't you?" Merrill asks quietly. She has waited until Bethany, Varric and Fenris have walked some distance ahead. The dwarf, Varric, is friendly and she has no doubt that he would take her to Kirkwall if asked—but she senses that it is Hawke who is in charge of the group, who must be on her side if she's to get what she wants. "I did the rite, as asked."

"I keep my word," she says stiffly.

Merrill nods. She wishes Hawke was warm with her the way she had been upon meeting her hours ago. It was nice while it lasted, to be treated like a person, to not be reviled. She won't push for more. The Keeper likes to say that there are few things stronger than a promise kept. Merrill will consider herself lucky that the shemlen and her friends will aid her in getting to Kirkwall. She could never do it alone. She gets lost just about everywhere. "I appreciate it. I promise not to overly burden you."

Hawke watches her as she walks, cheeks seeming to redden, lips parting to say something. Then she lurches, twists and falls flat on her face. Merrill glances down, a tree root is sticking out of the ground like a bad trap—the root sticks out obviously. Hawke swears softly under her breath.

"Creators!" Merrill stoops to take her shoulders and help her sit up. "Are you all right? This happens to me _all_ the time, it helps to watch where you're going…" Hawke's sword slides comically down the slope of the mountain, alerting the others who look back at them in alarm before setting their sights on Merrill, glaring. "I didn't do this," she defends.

Hawke waves them away. "Lost my footing, is all," she sits up, mud caked to half of her face. Merrill tries to help but only manages to smear it further. She apologizes. Hawke looks at her anxiously.

Bethany shakes her head and draws nearer, kneeling beside her. "Really, Sister. You don't take a hit in battle and you trip over your own feet outside of it?" she sighs. "Your nose is bleeding." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing Hawke's nose carefully before pushing the handkerchief at her. "Maybe this time you ought to watch where you're going?"

"Well, what does that mean?" Hawke asks, perplexed. She takes the handkerchief wiping feverishly at the mud on her face. "What else might I have been looking at?"

Bethany sighs and pulls her to her feet. "We've got another week's worth of walking to do with um… our new companion," she looks apprehensively at Merrill and back to Hawke. "Watch where you're going," she says again and moves ahead.

Merrill chases down the longsword Hawke dropped, hoping to rid the air of some of the unusual and unidentifiable tension. She returns it to Hawke who takes it gratefully. "I hate it when I fall hard and unexpectedly," she sheathes the sword and smiles. Mud clings in dots to her bright hair.

"Everyone falls on this mountain."

* * *

They're an hour out of the Dalish campsite when darkness starts to fall. Grey, stormy clouds fan over the skies moving quickly. Merrill looks at the sky cautiously. Thunder roars in the distance. It will be on them soon. All about them are trees that reach high above them, their branches spread. They're crammed so closely together that it's no place for camping.

"There are caves nearby," Merrill tells the group. "Of course we're still on Sundermount. I can't promise they'll be any safer than what we went through earlier." Her tone is apologetic. Truthfully, they made great time ascending the heights of Sundermount but she knows she has inconvenienced them all the same.

"What a surprise," Fenris says.

"We need to get somewhere," Bethany lifts her head to the sky. "It's going to be a heavy downpour. The ground is slippery enough already," her breath mists in the air. "We can't risk breaking a leg on the way down—or worse."

"As eager as I am to get off this creepy mountain, I think Sunshine has a point." Varric wipes away the raindrop that falls on his face. "Flash floods are never good news. Especially for gentlemen of my stature."

"Then we take Merrill's suggestion," Hawke turns to Merrill. "Whatever we've faced before we can face again. Lead the way." Hawke looks confident and at ease—the others uncertain but resigned. Merrill hesitates but is encouraged by Hawke's nod.

"They're this way," she points and prays to every God she knows that she does not lead them in circles and get them lost.

* * *

They make quick time to everyone's surprise. No one is more surprised than Merrill. She ventures that the constant exploring, especially when the clan was angry, led her to know the land better than she expected. The cave they arrive at is a massive, yawning thing with craggy rocks that hang down like teeth, ready to swallow them. It's pitch black within.

"I can't believe I'm willingly walking into here," Varric says with a shake of his head, Fenris and Bethany following after him. She sees Bethany lift a hand and light envelope it, washing the cave in a soothing blue glow. Bethany seems a friendly, pure creature—for a shemlen—one that looks to mistrust her. Merrill hopes that one day they may be friends but she won't hold her breath. She's never known how to have those. And she isn't sure that she should have shemlen ones. Not that the elf with the white markings is any better.

"It looks clear," Bethany says with some relief.

Fenris looks around cautiously. "For the time being."

Hawke grins. "Don't be such a pessimist, Fenris. It's clear. And best of all, it's dry. I so hate fighting corpses and shades in the mud and rain."

"You did wonderfully earlier," Merrill stammers. She didn't speak loudly but her voice carries in the cave. Fenris glowers at the words. Merrill wonders if there's anything she can say that he won't take issue with. Varric smirks and Bethany sighs.

Hawke hasn't heard, forging ahead into the bowels of the cave. Merrill starts to follow, unsure that she should go alone but Bethany and Fenris follow after her. Merrill comes to a still, twiddling her fingers before running a hand nervously through her hair, to the tangled braids.

"I've got enough stories about vengeful spirits to keep me for a while," Varric kneels at the collection of camping goods the group has brought in. "Why don't we let them have at it and you and I will set up the sleeping mats? No use setting up tents in here."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She hurries to his side and starts unrolling the four sleeping rolls. She realizes, grimly, that she's brought no tent or sleeping mat. It completely escaped her mind, she had been so focused on bringing the few books that she could for study. She doesn't look forward to the weeks worth of travel to Kirkwall, sleeping on cold, hard ground.

"Don't let Elf bother you," Varric smoothes out the mat, "he likes to brood." Merrill doesn't know what to say. Initially she had been reassured to see him in Hawke's pack. He was someone like her. But he's not like her at all. He's a flat ear elf with the same judgments as her clan. The dwarf on the other hand is quite likable. She's never met one before but she hopes they're all kind like him. "And the Hawkes are good people. Trust me."

"That's kind of you to say." But she doesn't know that she believes any of it. What is she doing, turning away from her clan? At least they care about her. She could turn away from blood magic, keep training to be a Keeper and stay with her clan. But at what cost? She'll suffer anything to give them back their past.

Fenris, Bethany and Hawke return, grimy with whatever battle they've fought. Outside, rain begins to fall, drumming its beat.

* * *

The fire has been quietly snapping for hours, the others long asleep when Hawke rises from her thin mat and joins Merrill beside the opening of the cave. Merrill's mind has been racing, worries refusing to let her sleep. The wind is howling. She can hear the hooting owls, the lightning that cracks above them.

"How long have you been awake?" Hawke asks. Merrill glances back at the sleeping figures. "You can take my mat. I was rude not to think of you. I've never been to a place like Sundermount before. I've fought a few shades and demons before—at Fenris' home. But nothing like this. The air is different here." She rubs her arms absently.

"It wasn't always my home. When the Blight came, we had to leave the Brecilian Forest. That wasn't always my home either." She pulls her knees close to her and exhales, feeling very tired and too alert in one. She's still unused to a shemlen presence, no matter the host, no matter how non-threatening Hawke presents herself.

"Do you mind if I sit beside you?" Hawke asks. Merrill looks at her. "You seem very nervous, is all."

"Like I said, I haven't known many shemlens."

"I take it wasn't a good experience."

Mahariel looked so awful that day. And Tamlen. Creators, whatever happened to him? He just disappeared. Mahariel had gone pale, black veins climbing up her neck and face. Her red hair looked particularly stark against her skin. Her words were uttered in feverish whispers, voice dropping and stalling, shivering, shivering. _No, no, you can't take her._ Merrill said. But the Warden had wrapped an arm solidly around Mahariel's waist, pulling her to her feet, taking her to Marethari to be granted permission. Duncan took Mahariel away. Merrill wasn't even allowed the chance of goodbye. "I lost a lot of things that day."

"Are you having problems with your clan because of blood magic?" Hawke asks tentatively. Merrill tenses. "Blood magic is dangerous. Sundermount is… a different place. You said you fought alone here. That must have been scary on your own. But you're going to Kirkwall now. There are a lot of Templars. It isn't a city that's kind to mages. Give it up."

"My clan has been asking me to give it up. I didn't listen to them. What makes you think I'll listen to you? We don't even know each other." Who does she think she is? Doesn't she realize what she's asking? Probably not. Even if she knew, would she understand? Probably not. Her clan has begged her to give it up. It has tormented her existence as long as she's practiced it. If only it were as easy as setting it aside.

"I don't know." Hawke reaches a hand out into the rain, collecting drops and washing the mud from her face. It takes several tries but soon the mud of before is completely wiped away, the red along the bridge of her nose seems to stay. "We'll be walking all day tomorrow. You should rest. Have my mat."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"It's no trouble. Please. I insist."

"Do you think being kind to me is going to make me give up blood magic? I'm used to my clan turning against me. I won't mind if I make a shem uncomfortable."

Hawke flicks the water from her fingers and wipes them on her pant leg. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Merrill doesn't clarify that she hasn't offended her, that she has only irritated her by being a shemlen and the same as anybody else. What's the point of going to the city if the people there and the people she meets will be as cruel to her as her clan has been? Maybe she'll get lost in the city. And maybe she'll be trampled and forgotten, like the history of her people. "Forgive me. I suppose I'm not being any more inviting than my clan. This is very different for me," she says quietly.

"You've had a difficult day." Hawke stands and leaves without another word.

It's impossible to see anything past the cave. All she can hear is the rain being carried by the wind, lashing at the trees. She hopes her clan is warm. That their tents are strong and not carried away in the night. Why do they have to be so close-minded? She sniffles once and wipes at her burning eyes. When she looks beside her she sees a sleeping mat. She touches it experimentally and looks back. Hawke is folding a tent, carefully fashioning it into a mat of sorts, making sure each wrinkle is removed before settling down on it beside her sister.

Their eyes meet but Hawke just looks away as if embarrassed.


	2. Kirkwall

A/N: A short little update. This story is slightly AU for reasons that will become fairly evident. Thanks for the reviews and follows, everyone. I meant for this to be a one shot and the story has already become quite lengthy. I'm trying to update in short little chunks instead of massive chapters. I assume that's better?

* * *

Though daunted by the decrepit state of the alienage, she is pleasantly surprised and then bewildered by the spacious home she has been accommodated with. She isn't sure if this is Marethari's doing—there were arrangements meant to be made. A Keeper is known in all elvhen circles, not just the Dalish—but she isn't sure that the title of First is known to anybody outside of the people—or that they would care.

The home seems extravagant for Marethari's purposes. And if Merrill knows the Keeper—bless her—she wouldn't want to make her too comfortable. She'd want her to see the error of her ways and return to the clan. Of course, the size of the home makes her feel so awfully removed from everybody.

The trip to Kirkwall was long. Hawke was polite but she kept her distance, though she refused to take back her sleeping mat. She must have looked particularly forlorn because Varric visited her one night. She always slept some small distance from the others. _Don't take it personally, Daisy. The kids are just sensitive about blood magic, that's all. Give them some time and they'll come around._ But he's a dwarf and dwarves have a high resistance to magic. Maybe he's biased.

A year has passed and still that Grey Warden left an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. It would be foolish to think that everyone of a people were the same. Yet, Duncan had come to them with good intentions and he'd taken Mahariel. She never returned.

Hawke's company already thinks little of her. Why should she trust them? Fear creates terrible things. Merrill is afraid of them. Maybe they see it, like a wolf can smell fear. Hawke told her she wouldn't visit. Merrill wasn't expecting to ask her to. She shouldn't be disappointed that Hawke won't. But she is.

It is difficult to be confined to a small square in a stone city. She is used to fresh air, the fresh grass beneath her feet, the dirt molding to her weight. Here there is nothing but cold stone. She won't wear shoes. She won't become like the city-elf. She will not relinquish her culture and her past and bow to the shemlen. How can they live this way…?

She doesn't like Kirkwall. It's confusing. The alleys and streets are like a maze. And all of it is dirty. She misses clean air. The skies here are filled with soot and ash. Night and day she hears the coughs of all the Lowtown dwellers. The elves are all so terribly thin with dark rings around their eyes. They appraise everyone suspiciously but her most of all. Creators, even among her 'kind' she is still an outsider.

It was easier to think she could do this when she was angry with the Keeper, when the clan turned their distrustful gaze in her direction. But now…

Her home howls at night when the wind is strong. It's freezing. And there are rats that she sees scurry in every direction, hungry for any food, food that she does not have. How will she feed herself? Will she have to resort to begging? What kind of employment can a Dalish First find for herself?

She doesn't dare venture out at night. She thought she would be safe among the crowds but in Kirkwall she is just another elf in a sea of people. No one that would be missed if she disappeared.

She buries herself in books and tries to fend off her hunger. When she can't bear it any longer she exits into the city. The Vhenadahl is beautiful in the daylight but at night it looks like a shade of a tree, branches skeletal and far reaching. The small Dalish flags the city-elves have raised flap in the breeze and Merrill smiles, thinking that despite having given up everything—they understand the importance of honoring the past.

The stone is cold beneath her feet. It's so dark she can barely see a thing. Her stomach growls and she clutches it, moving forward apprehensively. She hears the sound of breaking glass off in the distance. Someone is laughing. Someone further still is retching. Why has she left her home? She forgot her small coin purse and all the vendors are gone now.

_All right, Merrill. Settle down. You can go home, boil water and read while it cools enough to drink. You'll go out in the morning._ Yes. That's what she'll do. She turns around and doesn't recognize anything. There are stairs that go up, stairs that go down and so many little pathways. It's like a giant city for ants. Something else… the city is peculiar. Is she imagining that she hears whispers? With coal burning all night, the city should be warmer but she is cold.

She looks up to see a black sky tinged orange a like burning coal. No matter which way she turns she ends up in dead end alleys, interrupting lovers coupling _Oh, Creators, I am so sorry!_ , smugglers passing along goods, alley cats yowling and still she is stuck.

How can she be lost? She had only walked minutes before deciding to return home and now it's been hours. Fatigued and freezing she takes a seat on a flight of stairs, resting her head dully against the supporting wall. Maybe she should go back to Sundermount before they move on. She sighs and closes her eyes. The wind plays with her hair and she pulls more tightly into herself, spindly arms wrapping around her shoulders, legs to her chest as she tries to get warm.

Minutes pass.

A sting at the bottom of her neck rouses her. She nearly jumps when she sees the thug in front of her. He's tall and stocky with a bearded face and black leather. She does something that's like gasping when she means to talk. "Hand over your coin purse." Merrill nods anxiously, forcing her numb fingers to move and stretch, searching her sides, beginning to look for it. "Hurry up!"

She nods again. Then realization cheerfully dawns on her. Oh. She left it at home. It can't be stolen. Not that she had much but she imagines anything helps a thief. But if she doesn't have it—what will he do? What will he take instead? "I don't have it. I don't have it. I forgot it. I forgot it at home." She's talking too fast.

The man scowls. It's difficult to tell his features in the dark but she can sense his disposition take a turn for the worse. "I don't believe you. Don't you hold back on me, knife-ear," he presses the blade to her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut. Damn this city and the shemlen in it. "I'll do it. Don't test me."

"I don't have anything," she whispers, "I swear it."

Time stands still, the edge of the sword burning along her throat. She thinks of Marethari and Mahariel. If she were near, they would never let anything like this happen. But Mahariel is gone, taken by the taint of the Eluvian, taken by that Grey Warden. All of it pushed her on this path. This mess is of her doing. Her convictions brought her to this city where people take out of desperation and greed. What are convictions in the face of imminent death? Should she press into the blade, should she summon her blood magic? She could tear him apart. She could reduce him to something that could go through a strainer, liquid and pieces. She opens her eyes and she glares at him.

There's a loud clunk, an 'oof!' and the man falls forward into her lap. Merrill opens her eyes but can't scream. He lies in a heavy heap before she delicately pushes him and he falls to the wayside of the fleet of stairs. Hawke stands there, lowering the shield to her side. "Sorry. Did I interrupt? That didn't look very friendly." Merrill stands anxiously, never so happy to see a shem in her life as she is then. The danger mitigated, Merrill's eyes shimmer with relief. Even in the darkness Hawke's features are clear and concerned. "Are you all right? What are you doing here?"

Merrill doesn't know where 'here' is. But she hears a door open above and behind her. Bethany steps out and looks down at the pair curiously.

* * *

The Hawke home is roughly the size of her own, if not smaller, with more people living in it: Hawke's sister, Bethany, and her twin brother Carver, their mother Leandra and her brother in turn "Uncle Gamlen". A mabari sits by the door lifting its head sleepily and then at attention. They look curiously at Merrill, the uncle and brother, particularly so.

Merrill's encouraged to sit by Bethany and Leandra and they all crowd around a small dinner table. There aren't enough chairs but Hawke drags a chest from the room. Merrill catches a glimpse of a small, gloomy space. A candle burns on a plate atop two barrels. She can't imagine resting in there. Then the door swings shut. Hawke plants the chest with a hard 'thunk' besides Merrill and helps Leandra distribute plates.

"I shouldn't intrude," Merrill says. And she is intruding. What a strange evening. Getting lost in Lowtown, wandering for hours, being nearly robbed only to find herself sitting on Hawke's front steps. She wasn't expecting that, nor was she expecting to be invited to dinner. Her stomach growls in protest to her words.

"Don't be silly, dear," Leandra gives Gamlen a pointed look when his mouth twists to open. "Any friend of the girls is welcome in this home."

Carver narrows his eyes on Merrill. His hair and skin tone are the color of Bethany's, not fair and red like Hawke's. "I've never heard of you," he says. Bethany whacks the back of his head. He shuffles where he sits, his massive bicep brushing against her arm. Creators, it must be three times the size of hers. She stares at the muscle definition, fascinated. Elvhen men don't get so…large.

"And here you are," Hawke settles a plate in front of her, turning it just so that the flower design faces Merrill perfectly. The plate is an eggshell color and seemingly just as fragile, brown cracks run along the plate. The petals of the flower are a dazzling blue, despite the age of the plate. Hawke sets a small, shallow bowl beside Merrill's plate, in front of the chest where she'll presumably be sitting. She turns the bowl left and right until it sits to her liking.

Leandra fills the plates and Hawke's too small bowl with a thin stew. Guilt hits Merrill. This family barely has enough to make do and here they are feeding another mouth. She can't dwell too long. Hawke wipes a dab of broth from the corner of her bowl and then Merrill's with a napkin before sitting. Carver huffs and rolls his eyes. Hawke sits beside her on the old, weathered chest. She lifts a dull colored spoon, making it shine before dipping it into the stew. Merrill glances at her and Hawke smiles.

Merrill feels peculiar. The hunger is making her dizzy.


	3. The Alienage

A/N: A bit of a slower chapter (with fluff and niceties) but it should pick up next one with more of the twins! Also, I anticipate this story is going to get much darker later on. I have much more written than I've posted. Thanks for the reviews and follows, all. Ccryder! You don't allow me to PM you but wow- your reviews are better than my chapters! Thanks for the love. It's much appreciated.

* * *

Raindrops fall on her face, rousing her from troubling dreams of Eluvians and murderous blight taint. There isn't a day that passes that Merrill doesn't think or dream of Mahariel. The hours are spent immersing herself in the small collection of books she has and trying to find the means for the other tomes she needs. Kirkwall has a reputation for having a good selection. She only needs to find and pay for them. No trouble at all for an elf in a foreign city with no employment.

Merrill wipes the water from her face. Despite the rain that broke through her thin, battered roof, the sun still shines. Merrill can't tell what hour it is. She rarely leaves her home and sleeps irregular hours. The last time she had contact with anybody was dinner with the Hawke family. It was weeks ago but she still remembers it clearly.

* * *

She enjoyed their banter, Carver and Bethany's bickering, their relationship mirrored, strangely, like Gamlen and Leandra's. Hawke engaged her in little conversation, whisking away dishes as soon as they were cleaned out and washing them. Merrill stood to help her at the small sink with the murky water, a worn, faded wooden counter beside it. Her offer of help was rejected- Hawke grabbing her arm when Merrill dared dip her hand beneath the surface. _"Careful. There are knives in there. You'll hurt yourself."_

The comment annoyed her, though later when she thinks of it, she's fairly sure it was innocuous. Hawke passed her a washcloth to dry the dishes while Carver ducked out, shouting he was heading to Hightown, to Bethany's great annoyance.

Leandra and Gamlen retired. It was not the way Merrill meant for her evening to go, washing dishes shoulder to shoulder with Hawke who stands a foot or so taller than her. Shemlen are so tall. Even by Dalish standards she's only average height. Merrill tried not to think of the miserable walk home. How could she explain that she hadn't meant to visit, that she'd gotten so terribly lost that Hawke's presence was the only indication that she was still in Lowtown? It was frightening to think of that walk home alone. If she ever made it.

Luckily, the decision was made for her. After Hawke straightened the cups, plates and utensils so they all faced the same direction, she went to the door, picking up and wrapping the belt with the sword around her waist, sliding her arm through the shield straps.

Merrill still isn't sure what it is that happened next. Bethany guided Hawke to a corner where they exchanged hushed words. Bethany crossed her arms and looked serious, while Hawke was first perplexed and then jovial. In the end Hawke went to the door and opened it looking over to Merrill. "Your escort awaits. And by escort, I do mean me."

Bethany smiled wanly and bid her goodbye while Hawke and the mabari, Courage, followed Merrill out the door. Merrill hadn't said a word. Maybe she was looking for courage, the real sort, not the kind who begged for scraps and slobbered all over her hand when she reached down to pet him between spoonfuls of stew. Before she knew it they were back at her home. It had taken only minutes.

"Here you are," Hawke said, maintaining a good ten feet between herself and the door. "I'll just make sure you get in safely and be on my way."

Merrill felt humiliated. Even Dalish show shemlens more courtesy than this when they visit the clan. Hawke saved her from a thug, fed her and made sure she got home safely and Merrill hadn't said a single kind word to her. She was still shocked at returning home so quickly. "You remembered where I live. How did you do that when I could get lost for days?"

"We're practically neighbors. Don't let it trouble you. Kirkwall's an easy city to get lost in."

Merrill nodded numbly, meandering to the door and jiggling it a few times. She stepped inside cautiously exploring before returning to the door. Hawke kept her distance but Courage trotted over. Merrill ran her fingers through his fur, scratching behind his ear. He whined in appreciation.

"Lucky boy!" Hawke said with a grin. "Come on, Courage. Let's let her rest." Courage galloped back to her side and she patted his rump. "Once you shut that door we'll be on our way."

Merrill thought to invite her in. But her mouth was dry and she shut the door instead.

* * *

How is it that she can summon a demon and still be so frightened of ordinary things? The elvhen neighbors look at the tattoos on her face as curiously as any other person. Some must know what they are. Others must wonder why she bothers. She sees them dirty faced with shambling clothes, too thin and frail to possibly be properly nourished. They always stare at her bare feet as if they were the strangest, most foolish things.

Some raise their faces, lips pulling into smug smiles. She wanders their bare market stalls and has enough coin to buy some small, bruised apples. The elves return her change gruffly. She feels more of an outsider amongst these city-elves than amongst the shemlen. She's just another elf to the shemlens. The city-elves know her differences and reject her for it. It's possible any Dalish they may have encountered before may have been arrogant towards them. But they do deserve it a little, don't they? Why live at the feet of the race that wiped out your people? That stole their culture? And then act so superior about it?

She bites into the apple. It's dry and tasteless. She's still unsure what time it is. Sometime in the afternoon. There are parents out with their children, little ones racing through the packed crowds, chasing one another in a game of tag. There is a girl with brown hair and pigtails, painting a thin, tin grooved slab that rests against the wall. A few bowls are at her paint streaked feet, reds, yellows, greens, a paintbrush dipped in each color. Aside from the Vhenadahl there is no artifact of nature anywhere. The painting on the tin slab looks to be of mountains, grass and trees. Merrill smiles, feeling a measure of hope. "That's so lovely," Merrill says.

The girl looks at her, startled, but then smiles. "Thank you. I like the little flags that we have up but it'd be nice if we had more color." Merrill can't tell her age. Is she ten? Maybe eleven years old? "I've never seen you before."

"I'm new." She isn't sure how to interact with much of anybody, but the girl with the paint streaked on her legs and face seems less threatening. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't. It's not so bad if you don't go out at night. People with knives come out at night. At least the humans stay out of this area. I don't really like wandering outside of the alienage." She bites her lip. "They can be so mean." She reaches down and offers her a red brush. Merrill takes it gratefully. "You talk funny."

Her face reddens. "Do I? You're the one that sounds a wee bit funny to me," she smiles. "I came from Sundermount. All my people talk this way."

"Your people?"

"The Dalish. The last—" she shakes her head. It'd be silly to talk to the girl about the politics of the Dalish and the city-elves. And why create queries where there are none? The girl is the first friendly elf she has run into in the alienage. It's probably because she doesn't know any better. "We don't live in cities."

"Ooh. You're the one who moved into that big house. Everyone's so jealous. There are seven people in my house. It's me and my father and some cousins. Well, they aren't really cousins but we all grew up together. We're like family." Merrill nods and paints an experimental leaf on the tree. Clans are usually a family that travel together. She can't imagine living with people who aren't blood-relatives and pretending that they are. "You don't look like a bandit."

"What? Of course not. I'm not a bandit; why would I look like a bandit?"

"People say that elves that don't live in the cities don't exist. Or…steal things." She becomes more uncertain as she says the words. Merrill nearly scowls. "My name is Lia."

"Oh! That's polite, isn't it? To introduce oneself? I left all my manners at Sundermount, it seems. This is so embarrassing…" She extends a hand and Lia stares at it before taking it by the tips and then releasing it. It's something she saw Hawke do. Maybe the city-elves don't do this or maybe the girl doesn't know what it was meant for. Merrill's face heats further. "Well…please be at ease, I am no bandit."

"What's your name?" the girl asks tentatively, an eyebrow arched smartly.

"Creators! I really am bad at this. Merrill," she rushes, saying the name before she falls to another rambling battle, "my name is Merrill."

"I like your face drawings, Merrill," she picks up the blue paintbrush and begins to paint a canvas of sky above the mountains she's already done. She hums a song that Merrill doesn't recognize but is pleasant to the ear. "It must be wonderful to have seen something outside of an alienage. I haven't even been to Hightown. Father says I don't ever need to step foot there. One of my friends went to work for a noble as a maid. And one of my aunts went to… the Blooming… I don't know. But no one talks about her anymore. It's as if she doesn't exist."

Merrill frowns. "That's terrible," she says. Who are these city-elves that forsake one another so easily? Not that she knows what the Blooming…whatever is. Do they sell undergarments? It doesn't seem so terrible, certainly nothing to be forgotten for.

"I've heard about mountains and wide open skies before and grass you can run your fingers through. Caves, rivers, cliffs and sandy beaches. Everything outside of Kirkwall sounds so beautiful."

"You're still young. Maybe someday you'll go."

Lia smiles, painting broad strokes of blue to create a wide expanse of sky. "I hope so."

They continue to paint for a time, Merrill drawing a cartoonish aravel with large, red sails, taking too much time to get the details just right before she tries drawing a halla. It turns out looking like a dog with horns. Attempts to fix it make it look worse still, like a boar, until finally she paints over it in green, returning the hills as best as she can to Lia's original vision before adding a long, willowy tree atop of the failed halla. She smiles grimly and realizes it's darker now than it was weeks ago when she foolishly stepped out to search for food.

The courtyard has emptied, the elves apparently having returned to their homes. And what happened to Lia? It's always been a bad habit of hers to get so involved in what she's doing to the exclusion of everything else. She returns to her home and lies in bed restlessly. She may have had her problems with the Keeper but Marethari was wonderful company and kind. It's a pity she didn't inquire where the girl Lia lived. It would have been nice to speak to her, despite her youth.

She never imagined she'd feel so alone. She thinks of Andruil's code. _Vir Assan_, the 'way of the arrow'. Fly straight and never waiver. Yes. What she is doing is worthwhile and she must not waiver, no matter how hard it gets. She is Dalish. She knows what it is to constantly be on the move, to be apart from everyone closest to you. She left her Alerion clan after all. She went to the Sabrae clan. It took her some time but she gradually… well… they came to regard her decently enough didn't they? And it seems that almost as soon as they had she became so focused on the Eluvian that she pushed them all away.

She is unable to lie still and exits the home. If people really think she's a bandit then perhaps she is a fearsome thing that can intimidate them. Oh, that's not true, not true at all. What did Varric call her? Daisy? She couldn't intimidate a bunny.

Merrill climbs the steps that lead deeper into Lowtown (at least she believes so) and is surprised when she comes across a massive barred gate. She takes the bars and rattles it but it doesn't budge. What is this? "Ah, hello!" She calls out. "Someone has…trapped me here! Accidentally, I hope…" she tries to peer out but sees nothing. "Anyone?"

Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. Does she need to go wander Lowtown at night? What if she hasn't remembered anything at all and she ends up someplace horrible? Like…the alienage. She pouts and shakes the gate. It's massive, strong and tall. There'd be no way of climbing it and no guarantee that she wouldn't snap her neck were she to fall. "Can anyone hear me? Hello?"

She sees a mass of laughing shadows slip around the corner and sighs with frustration. What is the meaning of this? Is this a shemlen prank? You can't contain a people to one location. Sure, the city-elf are contained year round to this part of the city but to lock it at night? That's… why?

"Merrill?" Hawke's voice. Merrill turns sharply to see her figure there in the dark, a torch some distance up (how do they light it, Merrill wonders) covering her in a honey glow. "I thought I heard your voice." Hawke looks to the gate and then back at her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am all right, but no, I am trapped in here." She shakes the gate once more for good measure and accomplishes nothing. "This wasn't here when you walked me back last time."

"It was earlier then." She must see the confusion on Merrill's features and continues gently. "They lock up the alienage every night." Her fingers grip the bars and she presses carefully against them, giving them a solid yank to get nothing in return.

"I'm trapped in here? On purpose? Why? This is terrible."

"The city-guard locks it at night. To keep you safe."

"Is that the shemlens excuse?" She asks haughtily. "I never asked to be made safe. I never asked for this giant gate," she pulls at it again in frustration and hangs her head. "I just wanted to go out. But now I'm a prisoner. There's no fresh air here."

"There's no fresh air in any of Lowtown." Hawke says. Merrill pulls back. "This is terrible, no question. But the city-guard means well. There are people who enter alienages to create problems."

"Maybe the humans should be locked up at night, then," Merrill snaps.

"Maybe," Hawke agrees, "but I'd prefer that everyone be free." Merrill doesn't know why she's so angry. She had no destination in mind. Chances are that she was going to turn back as soon as she reached the top of the stairs. Why argue with Hawke anyway? Aside from her disapproval of blood magic (which sadly stems to everyone), she has been perfectly kind. "What were your plans tonight?"

"I don't know. I wanted to stretch my legs. I wanted to talk to someone."

"Who? I'll find them for you."

Merrill shakes her head. Whom could she have wanted to find? Did she want to run into Hawke? Maybe. Or maybe Varric. He's funny and sweet. Hawke waits patiently. "It doesn't matter."

She pouts. "Will you wait right here?" Merrill wonders if she's putting her on. Where else could she wait? Oh. She could return home, she supposes. "I meant to come earlier but…" Hawke bows her head, smiles faintly, "well… I didn't want to be a bother."

"You're no bother." Merrill doesn't want to mean it but she does.

Hawke lifts her head, her smile full now. "Brilliant. Give me a few, all right? Erm—and keep an eye out. It's not safe in there either right now, is it?" She literally sprints away from the gate, leaving Merrill puzzled at the strange woman. It's getting cold. Merrill sits on the top of the flight of steps and rubs at her arms.

Not long after she hears the sound of running footsteps and Hawke is back in front of her, face flushed from the exertion. Merrill doubts she took more than five minutes.

"Good. You're still here," Hawke pushes a blanket through the gate and Merrill holds on to it, unsure of what it is that she's supposed to be doing. "It's for your shoulders so you don't get cold. Here," she slides her hands between the bars, taking the blanket from her, stretching it and delicately slipping it around her shoulders. The weight of her fingers is feather light. She smoothes the fabric until it's straight on her shoulders with no creases. Merrill wonders if she's usually so tactile. She isn't used to contact. She thinks of Mahariel's hand gliding along her cheek, her eyes half-closing at the memory.

"I brought cards," Hawke takes out a deck from a satchel she slips from her shoulders, "and candles. So we can see what we're playing." She takes out the candles from the satchel, setting it aside before holding the two candles next to one another. They're uneven and she removes a dagger from her side, cutting off the differentiating length from the right candle, measuring again before setting one on each side of the gate. "I forgot the flint," she says, crestfallen.

Merrill looks cautiously about her and lights the wick of the candle at her side before reaching through the bars to touch the candle at Hawke's side. Hawke takes her wrist. "Careful," she murmurs, cradling her hand to hide it from view of any possible onlookers. "I wouldn't want you to get caught."

Her hand is warm in the chilly night. Merrill wonders if she allows Hawke's touch for too long before pulling away. "Too late for that, isn't it?" she says with a glance at the gate. Hawke smiles and distributes the cards, the candlelight hinting at the scars along her fingers. Merrill wonders if they bother her. They aren't something that can be scrubbed away. Hawke straightens the cards so they're perfectly stacked and straight on both sides. "Does your sister mind that you're here?" Hawke pauses in the midst of distributing cards. "It's just—it seems…"

"Oh, that." For a moment, she appears conflicted, daring so much as to glance behind her before pushing the auburn hair back from her eyes. "Bethany just… Well. I don't know, really." Hawke stares at her hands for too long. "I was supposed to meet Bethany and Carver at the Hanged Man…but I heard your voice and I suppose I got distracted." She lifts her head but doesn't quite look at her. "Do you mind? I didn't really ask, did I?" she sets the cards down.

Her voice is so tentative. It's different than how she sounds when she's with her family or friends. Merrill doesn't understand it. Does she have to understand it? She reaches between the bars and takes the cards, continuing to distribute them. She fights the smile threatening to turn her lips. "I don't mind."


	4. The Hanged Man

A/N: This is a Hawke siblings heavy chapter with most of the talk surrounding Hawke and Merrill. They make minor appearances. Thanks for the reviews and follows, everyone. This story is a very slow build I realize but hopefully you'll stick around to see it through.

* * *

The Hanged Man is bustling. People crowd around tables playing card games and pounding down pints of beer. Norah navigates the throngs of people, feet eerily steady considering the beer Bethany has seen her down in the short span of time she's been here.

Carver is on his fifth pint of beer. His cheeks are flushed and he's becoming louder and more belligerent by the moment. Isabela's discount from Corff is both a blessing and a curse. Hawke stands at the bar politely, removing a handkerchief from her back pocket to clean the bar of spilled beer. Carver laughs. "Maker, she never stops. You know what we could do with her? Put her in as some Hightown maid for every noble. We'll have that Deep Roads expedition paid for in no time."

"An idea," Bethany muses, "or, you could stop going to the Blooming Rose spending all the bloody coin we make." He glares at her, face getting redder. She looks at him and dares him to deny it. "Just an idea."

"I liked mine better. And I'll tell you what," he says pointing a finger at her, "if you paid the Rose a visit you might get that stick out of your arse." Bethany rolls her eyes. He takes a quick drink of beer and pounds the empty glass down. "Hurry it up, Edith!" He calls to Hawke.

Bethany grimaces, knowing how Hawke hates to be known by that first name. She was so particular about it during their year of servitude. "_We may have to do this, but I don't want to be on a first-name basis with any of these rogues, do you?" _Bethany hadn't minded too much. She certainly hadn't minded Athenril. "Stop being so loud," she says to him.

"Like anybody can hear me over the rest of these drunks," he reaches for Bethany's pint of beer but she takes it away.

Hawke glances over to them, raising a hand for Carver to wait just a moment. She appears to be in a quibble with Corff over a glass. She points at it to him and once again draws out the handkerchief. Carver snorts. "You shouldn't tease her," Bethany says.

"I'm allowed. You do plenty of teasing of your own."

"That's different," she pouts. She teases Hawke over her obliviousness. Hawke is often too removed to even understand what's beneath the teasing. It's much how Isabela teases Hawke for doing things out of the goodness of her heart. In the beginning Isabela suspected Hawke's grand speeches were jokes. "Where's Varric? I was hoping for a game of Diamondback."

"Weren't you just scolding me for wasting coin?"

Bethany smiles. "What are you talking about? Varric never takes my coin—though he does let me win some off him."

"That rotten dwarven bastard." Carver shakes his head. "He went to get one of your 'friends'. The elf? What's her name? Merrill?" Carver looks impatiently to the bar. Hawke appears to be in a new dispute over another glass.

"Really?" Bethany is dismayed. Merrill is…a peculiar person. Maybe elvhen clans are different. Merrill never appears to be comfortable anywhere. She's…awkward. Perfectly nice…sweet in her own little way but even so… "Why her?"

"What? You have something against elves? First Fenris, now this one."

"Fenris is a _tit_," she whispers across the table. "Am I supposed to beam and smile whenever he tells me I'm going to turn into an abomination and murder everyone I love?" Carver crosses his arms. "Merrill's… we don't need another apostate around drawing attention to us," she says quietly, "especially a _blood mage_. Did you learn nothing from Father?"

Their father had been a kind man. He had told her what she had was a gift. She still doesn't know if that's true. But despite his warmth, his encouragement, his teachings—he always condemned blood magic, he knew the dangers.

"No. Must not have been remarkable enough for him to bother with," he says. "We've had to deal with the threat of you bringing down Templars over our heads for most of our lives. What's another mage? Far as I'm concerned your whole lot is a menace. I don't think it matters one way or another to the Templars. Just being an apostate is a good enough excuse for them to lop off your heads."

"You're the worst, you know that?" Bethany hates having these talks with Carver. He's always resentful and he could never truly understand. She knows she's burdened him. She doesn't need the reminder. The whole matter makes her want to run away. They'd be better off without her, wouldn't they? She knows in the morning, hungover and miserable, Carver will remember what he's said and apologize, sulking until she forgives him. It's his way. And Maker help her, she never can stay too angry at him. "Anyway… what do you suppose Sister sees in her?"

"She's a bleeding heart for any cause. Maker knows you have Edith wrapped around your little finger. Always have. Are you angry that she's straying?"

"What in the blazes are you going on about?"

Carver is poised with a retort when Isabela slides down next to him on the bench, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. His face goes blank, thought removed before irritation marks him. "Isabela."

"Carver. I haven't seen you at the Rose in a few days. Don't tell me such a virile, young man has already dropped his rudder." She looks at Bethany and winks.

Bethany flushes and has a drink of beer. "Can you please not talk about those sorts of things? He's my brother." Back at the bar Hawke finally appears to have gotten a pitcher of beer. She glances over and spots Isabela and grabs Corff's attention again. Maker. Will they ever get another drink at this rate?

"She's been up there all bloody evening," Carver complains. "Does she bloody fancy him? Be direct about it, curse you," he says in her direction, "I'd like my blighted beer!"

"You can't be serious," Bethany looks at him. Has he never noticed that she doesn't pay men any attention? Then again—she doubts Edith has noticed either. Maker, she loves her older sister but she can be _so_ thick and unaware at times.

"Why not? If I have to hear one more story from Mother of a failed attempt to marry her to some inbred Hightown noble… I'll gut myself just to not have to listen to it. If she marries the barkeep maybe we'll get a beer before the next bloody blight."

They survey Hawke. Corff has slammed down a pint glass in front of her. She studies it cautiously.

Isabela shakes her head. "I thought the only thing that got your sister off was justice," she says dryly, "and not the fun, flashy type like that man inside of Anders. And cleaning. Let's not forget that."

"I don't trust that act of hers," Carver broods. "Nobody is that good."

"Nineteen years is a long time to put on an act," Bethany gets up from the bench and goes over to Hawke, taking a stack of five glasses from her, she pulls on her hand, sure now that she'll only remove herself from the bar if she's physically dragged. "You know, we're not so particular. Nobody comes to the Hanged Man because it's clean. They could be feeding us piss and half of us wouldn't notice it." Hawke pales at the suggestion. "I'm sure it isn't. Mostly."

They stop as two comely young women pass them, eager to get to the bar. Hawke steps aside to allow them to pass, her head turning to follow them. Isabela, eyeing the duo, mouths 'ooooohhhhhhh!' to Bethany who flushes, afraid of the sort of torture Isabela will put Hawke through now that she's caught on. Isabela rarely ventures with the party, usually too irritated by Hawke's selfless acts. _She's a parody of herself. Ugh, how can you stand it? _

"I'm sorry Bethany—what was that?"

"Distracted, Sister?"

Another puzzled expression and then a smile. "Let's get this beer to the table, shall we?" She saunters over, placing a glass in front of all of them, turning the glasses in a particular way. Sometimes Bethany knows the method to her madness but not always. She wonders if Hawke can help herself. "Isabela," Hawke says. "Strange to see you here."

"Is it? I live here and I like to drink." She places her hands on the table, pressing her breasts together and stretching close to her. Hawke pauses in the midst of pouring Carver's beer. He rips the pitcher away from her, grumbling under his breath while Bethany encourages him to scoot aside. Isabela pulls Hawke down hard to a sitting beside her. Moments later she's sitting on her lap, a hand to her face. Hawke's face has gone as red as her hair. Isabela positions herself so her ample bosom is only inches from Hawke's face. "You've never even known how to be bad, have you? You _poor_, _sweet_ thing."

"I…-" Hawke stares at Isabela, her gaze dropping to her breasts and then away. Maker, Bethany thinks. Even she can't help but stare at them at this rate. They are impressive. "I, erm…" Hawke's forehead gleams with sweat. "I'm sorry… ah, what – what are we talking about?" Isabela glances back at Bethany and winks.

"Bela…" Grown men and women who know their desires well fall prey to Isabela. She can't imagine her lovely but sometimes dunce of a sister who has no clue about what draws her to a person standing a chance against a siren like her. "Be _nice_."

"Oh, sure," Carver says to Hawke, "wash every voided glass five times but don't blink an eye at having Isabela straddle you."

Isabela reaches across noncommitally to slap him across the face without so much as a glance to him. He massages his cheek and takes another drink of beer. Bethany is appalled that Carver may be right—and Hawke may have literally not blinked since Isabela took to straddling her. Bethany takes the opportunity to pour herself a glass of beer before Carver or Isabela finish it all. Isabela leans in close as if to kiss Hawke. Hawke's bright blue eyes are wide in what could be terror or anticipation. "You like to clean. I think I need a bath. Do you think I need a bath?"

Bethany clears her throat but Isabela doesn't budge. Instead, she dips her head to whisper in Hawke's ear. Her face is crimson now. "Bela!" Bethany says.

Isabela looks at her and laughs. "Oh, you're no fun." Bethany isn't sure if she's talking to her sister or her. She slides away and Bethany feels like she can breathe again. Hawke touches a hand to her cheek and Bethany's heart drops to see Varric making their way towards them, Merrill in tow. "It's the kitten. Have you ever noticed how her eyes go all wide and curious like that?"

"Aren't those snotty Dalish elves more like alley cats?" Carver asks. "Not bad, though. Pretty face. No tits to speak of—"

"Carver!" Bethany feels her face ready to melt away in embarrassment but when Merrill appears, nervous and scatter-brained in her usual fashion, Carver stands and encourages her to take his seat, which she does. Everything seems to fluster her. Hawke stares at Merrill wordlessly and runs to get another glass.

How they all fawn over her. Don't they realize she's a blood mage? Does nobody remember that? Her own clan didn't want her. But Edith goes so stupid around her whenever she appears. You'd think she'd never seen an elf before. Where are Fenris or Anders when you need them? They're reasonable—in their own way. Don't they realize Merrill isn't only risking her neck? She's risking Bethany's—and all of theirs, including their mother. If the Templars notice the terribly awkward and conspicuous elf, they'll bring their wrath down on their heads.

Hawke, by the bar, cleans a pint glass anxiously. Merrill taps her bare foot on the floor, hands wringing in her lap, shoulders hunched and tense, looking around worriedly. When she spots Hawke, some of the tension leaves her. Hawke smiles, ceasing all motion, the glass stuck around her hand. For the moment Hawke appears to be blithely unaware.

Bethany's unease grows.


	5. Of Templars and Blood Magic

A/N: I meant for this story to be a one shot. Silly me. It's finally starting to pick up a little. Thanks for the reviews and follows, everyone! There's about five more chapters written (and it's not even past act 1 yet) but I'm trying to not flood you all and get ahead of myself. I'm trying to get around to writing that last Liars...

* * *

They've just finished a squadron of attacking bandits and the group has collected itself to dip its feet in the ocean waters of the Wounded Coast. Hawke hurried eagerly to the water, anxious to wash the blood from her hands, face and armor. Carver yanks his boots off, burying his feet in the cool sand. Merrill and Bethany rest against a palm tree some distance away, the battle having depleted a good deal of their energy. Bethany is worn but Merrill had sliced into her arm during battle. It had turned the tide in their favor but now she's in need of healing. Hawke is irritated.

"We're not in King Cailan's army anymore," Carver comments.

"It's hard to be in the army of a dead man." Hawke studies her hands, satisfied that the red is out. It has a way of getting in the crevices of flesh and armor. She has a handkerchief and wants desperately to wipe at Carver's face but knows that he'll bat her away. It leaves her feeling more distressed than the battle. "Is there something you're getting at, Brother?"

"We've been scrimping and saving for this Deep Roads Expedition. But if it doesn't pan out we're done for. We'll have lost all our coin and we'll have no home—save for Gamlen. I don't know about you but I'm tired of living in that home with Mother and Uncle and you and Bethany."

"Tell me how you really feel about it," Hawke sighs, sitting on the sand, feeling the grains bury in her hands. She claps her hands to get rid of it but it's everywhere. "I know it's difficult, Carver, but getting further involved in the underworld won't suit us in the end."

"It suited me just fine."

"Who knows what sort of danger that might bring Mother and Uncle Gamlen? Anyway… it's not proper." It had been necessary to work their year of servitude for the sake of getting their mother into the city. Carver and Bethany would have been fine with going somewhere else but their mother had been adamant. They had to do many unscrupulous things but in the end it had been worth it. They'd gotten into the city and had provided for the family. When it was over, Hawke saw no need to stick with Athenril. Carver and Bethany protested but Hawke had never known anyone so self-serving. She would not allow herself or her family to be used for such greed and criminal mischief. "We should use our talents for worthier means."

"Then we agree." Carver looks cautiously at Bethany and Merrill before turning back to Hawke, lowering his voice. "Just hear me out. The City-Guard won't take me. We're Fereldan refugees. There's no work to be had for us. No matter what Aveline says, I can't just pick up a trade. These Kirkwall bastards would see us rot in Darktown. We can hold our own against darkspawn and the trash of this city. We deserve better."

"What do you suggest?"

Carver hesitates. "The Templars." Hawke's heart drops, going suddenly cold despite the heat of the sun. "Don't tell me that if it weren't for Bethany you wouldn't consider it. She's the one bright light in the sea of shit. Have we ever encountered decent apostates aside from her? Merrill's a blood mage and Anders is an abomination. We have given up our lives for her, moved from town to town, never allowed to excel, never allowed to have anything good happen. Father never gave a damn about us."

"Carver, that's not true."

"Isn't it?" He looks near tears. Obviously he's bothered. He's always shrugged it away. Hawke feels guilty at not having paid him more attention. "He doted on her. He'd go work and when he came home he'd pick her up and spin her in his arms and they'd go study for hours. What would I get? A pat in the head as if I were a dog. When I showed him my swordwork he'd say 'impressive' and leave it at that."

"I know how it was," she sounds a tad sharper than she means to. Their father favored Bethany. It's understandable. She's always been closer to Bethany as well. But why resent her father for it? It was what it was. He's no longer around. There's no reason to be angry about it. Hawke remembers trying to be better, trying to set everything just right. But it didn't matter. It doesn't matter. "I wish I'd known how much all of this bothered you. Father loved us, Carver. He loved us all. Bethany's had a difficult life. All the moving around was just as hard for her. You know how terrified she's been of herself. She has a curse, not a gift." Carver looks at her, surprised. "Honestly, who would want to be born that way? The truth is that we're lucky. We can lead our life whichever way we want. She can't. We're all she has. We can't turn to the Templars. It would kill her."

"So we're supposed to keep sacrificing? For her? When will we be free of her, damn it?" He tears his hands through his hair. "You know I love her. Maker, she's my twin sister. It isn't as if I'd turn her over. I'll defend her to the death. Tell me you believe me."

"I believe you."

"If it wasn't for her would you?"

"It would be a betrayal, Carver." She drops a hand to his shoulder and smiles. "I'm sure there's something else we can do. Something worthy. I'll help you. But not with this." She starts to stand but he grabs her arm, holds on tight.

"I'm not like you. I can't do this forever. I've been in both your shadows since I was born. I can't do it anymore. Help me, Edith. I hate to ask. You know how I hate to ask." His voice is tight, emotions barely controlled.

"We'll think of something," she says, running her hand through his hair. "I promise." She leaves his side and stands, trying scrupulously to wipe the sand from her hands and arms, from her armor before going to Merrill and Bethany. Merrill is ashy looking and Bethany is paler than normal. They're both covered in blood. Hawke fights to keep herself from dragging out the handkerchief. She kneels beside them, lamenting the sand. "How's it going over here?"

"Oh, lovely," Bethany says, words coming too slow as if she's just finished a marathon, "still trying to take care of…" she takes a breath and exhales shakily. "I'm all right. I'm tired. I just need a little time…"

Merrill holds a hand over her arm, blood pumping through her fingers. Her leather arm guard rests to the side of her, the thin silver protective mail she wears pulled up around her elbow. Pain is evident in her face. Her eyes are glassy and burning in one, proud. She is unwilling even to whimper. Hawke looks at Bethany. "Go sit with Carver." Bethany looks at her and then Merrill uncertainly. "It's all right. Go dip your feet in the water."

"I won't be long, Merrill," Bethany stands reluctantly and moves over to Carver.

Merrill grits her jaw, tears stubbornly remaining in her eyes. Hawke covers Merrill's hand with her own, feeling hot blood flood against her skin. "Let me see," Hawke says quietly. Merrill shakes her head. "Come on." She refuses to budge. Hawke takes her slippery, bloody hand in her on and removes it. A giant slab of flesh peels back, exposing the inside of her arm, muscle. Hawke goes dizzy, gingerly putting it back into place. "Maker, Merrill."

"You say that," she says shakily, "everyone does. Do you believe in the Maker?" Her eyes wander to her face, to the waters, Carver and Bethany, back to her.

"Yes."

"Why? What makes you believe?"

"I've gotten this far, haven't I?" she pulls the water skin from her side, yanking the cap off with her teeth and spilling some of the water on Merrill's arm. The blood washes away but more rushes to take its place. "I can't imagine how much this hurts." Merrill swallows, her face cold and sweaty but she says nothing. "Why do this? Is it worth it?"

"It's gotten me this far," she smiles palely and then clutches her arm with her other hand, getting sand all over it. She emits a small, pained sound. Hawke takes her hand and sets it to the side, letting water run over the wound again, ridding it of the sand. "That's how it is with blood magic. You need blood, yes. What most people don't know is that it's the quantity and the pain that fuels it. The more excruciating the pain the more powerful the spell," she smiles proudly. "I fought well today."

Hawke glowers, refusing to admit that she did. She will not encourage her way on this path. "Don't move." She goes back to the others, digging through the satchel on Bethany's belt. "I'm taking some elfroot," she mutters. Bethany offers her a small towel from the satchel and Hawke desperately cleans her hands. "You can't heal that right now. It's too much. I'll take care of it." She finds the small sewing kit and goes back to her with two small bottles. Merrill shakes. "Have a drink of this," she offers. Merrill eyes it cautiously. "It's elfroot. It will help." Merrill brings it hesitantly to her lips and tips her head back to drink. She sets the empty bottle aside and Hawke drips some of the potion onto the wound. "How does that feel?"

"A bit better," she murmurs.

"Good. I have a needle and thread. This is the way it will have to be today. It will scar." Hawke looks at her, waiting for an acknowledgement, for permission to be granted.

"I have lots of scars. That will be all right."

"Are they all from this?"

"Most of them. The ones you can see."

Hawke nods solemnly, threading the needle with the coarse fabric. She shakes her head, thinking it unnecessary. "We could have won without you doing that. It would have taken longer but we would have won." Merrill looks intently at her, unapologetic, nearly angry. "I'm not going to have my sister do this for you, you understand? I like you, Merrill. But I won't have her fixing your mistakes. She does enough."

"I've done fine on my own."

"You had Marethari before, didn't you? For healing? You don't have her anymore. You'll have to start using your head. You shouldn't be involved with this. It's dangerous."

"Then why not leave me? Why speak to me? Why bring me with you? You know what I am. If I see that I'm at risk or you're at risk—" She stops when Hawke looks at her, silent for several seconds as if trying to remember her words. "I don't know. I don't know why everyone is always angry whenever I try to help. It's not fair. You've killed more people with your sword than I have with blood magic."

"I didn't make a deal with a demon to use my sword," Hawke says firmly.

"And you think that's better?" Merrill glares at her and then looks away. "I'm only hurting myself."

"For now."

"I don't see why it matters."

"It matters." Hawke looks at her. Merrill holds her gaze and then ducks her head, from shame, guilt, anger, pain, Hawke doesn't know. She wishes she knew. "I can get you lyrium. It's pricy but Varric has connections."

"It's not the same, it's not enough. This isn't up for debate, Hawke. If you don't want me near, leave me here. My clan all but exiled me. I'm used to being alone. I've always been alone." Her eyebrows furrow. "I don't need you taking care of me."

"Hold on to something," Hawke says. "This is going to hurt." The needle is three some inches long, thicker than most, as is the thread. Merrill hisses and takes sharp hold of Hawke's shoulder, inadvertently drawing her near. Their eyes meet and they both exhale slowly, breath warm. "Was that too fast?"

Merrill shakes her head.

"My brother and I were at Ostagar. Mages weren't involved in great numbers during that war. It was rare if you met one. This is all we had when we got injured," she threads the needle through again, pulling the skin tighter. Merrill's chest falls and rises, fingers curling along Hawke's back, nails digging in. The sensation is disorienting. She focuses on the task, hands bloody. The process is slow going with Merrill narrowing her eyes, closing them from time to time but ultimately going back and forth from watching the stitching process to watching Hawke. "If it's that important, next time take it from me," Hawke says quietly. Merrill looks at her questioningly. "The blood." Merrill shakes her head furiously, nearly pulling her arm away and ripping the stitches in the process. Hawke catches her arm and stops her. "Stay still."

"I won't do that. I wouldn't do that, Hawke. I wouldn't."

"All right." Hawke says. But she's a blood mage. Why wouldn't she do that? Why wouldn't she take what was offered? Minutes later she finishes. They're left sweaty, bloody and pale. Hawke cups her face delicately, smearing blood on her cheeks in the process. Merrill's eyes soften, far away and then she pulls away from her.

Hawke steps back, embarrassed. She draws a streak of red over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "We'll move in five," she tells the group and goes to the water to rigorously wash her hands anew.


	6. Monsters

A/N: This was originally two chapters but the first one was a bit short so I stretched it and made it two. Finally, Hawke and Merrill having those conversation thingies.

* * *

Hawke claps her hand over Varric's, shaking it firmly. "You're a good man, Varric."

"With a fondness for Dalish elves," he grumbles, squeezing her hand firmly. "Just promise me you're not going to encourage Daisy to go traipsing in the night. Believe it or not, being Bartrand's younger brother doesn't mean I get a free pass on the Deep Road's expedition."

Hawke smiles grimly at the reminder. Merrill's encounter with the thug the night she visited had Hawke thinking of the risks posed to her in Kirkwall. She's Dalish. Hawke doesn't know much about them but she and her family find themselves overwhelmed from time to time at the perils of the city and they're surrounded by their own. She can't imagine someone like Merrill living away from her people in a dirty city rife with crime. "I'll provide what I can," she says releasing his hand.

He waves her away. "You've got enough on your plate. With Junior Hawke running up a tab at the Blooming Rose, you pulling out your hair to keep Sunshine out of the Templars sight _and_ find a way to fund the expedition, I'd say you're set on things to turn your hair grey. Let me take care of this one."

Hawke's embarrassed. It's always been her job to take care of every little thing. Even when her father still lived she helped look out for Carver, tried to help her mother and Bethany when she could. It's different to cede responsibility to another party but despite Varric's connections she trusts him fully to do what's needed. "A pint, then?" she offers.

"You know me well enough to know I'll accept. I'll take care of the glass, though," he says with a gentle smile. Hawke's face reddens, fingers clenching anxiously. She had not thought she was so obvious in her… quirks. "Hey, Hawke. Give it to me straight. I know how you and the gang gets squicky about blood magic—but I've seen how you look at her. You sweet on the girl? Merrill," he clarifies.

Her heart thumps, afraid that she's been caught off-guard but she's unsure of by what. "I've never known a Dalish." The explanation is fact but she isn't sure why she puts it forth. It feels like an excuse but she doesn't know that there's anything that needs excusing. She feels the same as when Bethany or Isabela give her knowing looks. She's cold and hot, hands clammy. She unfolds the handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her hands. "That's all."

"Sure," Varric says easily, "whatever you say, Hawke. How about that pint?"

* * *

She isn't wasting away. Not exactly, anyway though she can't argue that she has less food than ever. She misses rabbit stews and roasted deer. Most of all she misses sitting around the fire with the clan, listening to stories. Hahren Paivel's stories brought everyone closer together, taught them that the hardship of their lives was worth it. Truthfully they aren't as exciting as Varric or Isabela's stories but they were stories of the elvhen. Nobody tells stories like that. And even if Merrill knows more of the history of the elvhen than just about anybody—nobody cared to hear the tales from her lips. Except Mahariel. Mahariel who came to her tent for stories and talks, who crawled on all fours over her, her finger pulling gently at Merrill's lower lip. _Tell me about Mythal again…_ And Merrill did but never got very far.

She coughs. She's been coughing for days and isn't sure what the reason is. The city-elves have been whispering quietly to each other for weeks now, covering each other in blankets and sneaking to Darktown to get healing. The sky is often grey in Lowtown, the stench and choke of the Foundries clogging the air and making it difficult to breathe.

Merrill lethargically pulls herself out of bed, wiping perspiration from her forehead. A rat scurries past her foot but she's too tired to react. She has become so accustomed to seeing rats that she's considering giving them names and keeping them as pets.

She makes her way to the table by the fireplace, trying not to cough and failing. Isabela brought her a basket of food earlier, apples and cheeses, breads. _A lover likes having something to hold on to. _Merrill didn't tell her that she's never had anything more than a suggestion of curves. Her people are lean and active. Well, she's always been more of the first than the second but magic certainly has a tendency to spur the appetite and leave her more exhausted than climbing and chasing after prey could. What lover could she have? There's only ever been Mahariel and it's been so long since she's seen her face or heard her voice.

She can't shake Mahariel no matter how she tries. She's grateful for Isabela's concern and gift. Around her she manages to feel perfectly normal and like the most awkward being in one. How does Isabela move in that way, swaying her hips? She may be a shem but she's _so_ nice and _so_ fun and the blood magic thing doesn't seem to bother her at all. Yes. Varric and Isabela are her favorites. Isabela doesn't appear to be much like any other shem or Varric like any other dwarf—maybe that's why the three of them can get along. They're outsiders to their people.

Merrill struggles to break off a chunk of bread from a loaf that is already hardening when she hears a knock at the door. Curious. Most burglars don't knock—they walk in, are disappointed and kick at the furniture when they're feeling particularly irritated. But nobody knocks. Maybe it's Hawke…? She said she wouldn't visit but they're on friendlier terms. A little, anyway… She goes to the door, opening it a crack. It is forced open by a strong, broad hand and Merrill stands back, staring into the face of an elvhen man she doesn't recognize. His face is wrought with worry and grief.

"Have you seen my daughter?" He asks. He pushes into the home and Merrill lets him, unsure that she could protest or stop him if she wanted to. She coughs into her hand and he explores the home before returning to her. "Her name is Lia. She has brown hair, usually in pigtails."

"Oh! Lia!" Merrill cheers and the brightness and hope in the man's face makes her feel rotten. "No. I haven't seen her. Who are you?"

"My name is Elren. Maker, she was painting with her cousin hours ago and when he went back to the wall they were painting she was gone. It's not like her. My Lia knows the dangers. She wouldn't just slip away," he accuses though Merrill has not argued the point.

"It's only been a few hours. I'm sure she'll return," she sniffles and clears her throat. "This city is _so_ confusing. I get lost all the time." He covers his face with his hands and Merrill isn't sure what it is she should do. Is it so strange that a young elf would get lost in the city? If it weren't for Varric she'd get lost for days at a time. At least all the night stalkers have been on their best behavior. She touches his arm tentatively, not knowing whether this is the right thing. "Are you all right?"

"I hate this city. If I'd known this would happen I would have left Kirkwall long ago. I thought my little girl would be safe in the alienage, with her cousins. There's a bastard running around, taking elven children. We've all gone to the City-Guard but they refuse to act. We're nothing to them!" he spits.

Why would somebody take elvhen children? Merrill doesn't understand. She's never seen a man so twisted by anguish and rage. "It's only been a few hours," she says again. That girl, Lia, had been sweet and gentle, afraid of shemlens. It doesn't seem as if she'd go wander the city but Merrill never thought she'd leave her clan or practice blood magic and here she is. "Who took her?"

"I'm sorry for barging in here. I thought—we thought. You're Dalish and a stranger—nobody knows you," Elren looks at her unsteadily. Merrill doesn't understand the implication right away. When it comes it stings and makes her numb. "I was hoping she was here. I would rather she be here."

She tries to free herself of the anger before speaking again. Curiosity helps her overcome it. "Other elvhen children have gone missing?" Is it possible? Why take children? Why take elvhen children? Who would do such a thing? It makes little sense.

"I have to keep looking," Elren says manically and exits.

"Dareth shiral," Merrill says faintly. Did somebody take that girl? Why take a child? She wanders to the door. The air outside is rotten and foul. It hangs like a grey green haze, blocking out visibility from several feet onward. She reaches a hand out, the air near palpable. What does it look like from the other side? Is there a disembodied hand, scarred and small, pale, extending from the mist, like some monster? Do they think she's a monster? They don't know her. What if they knew her?

* * *

Hawke takes her to strange places with the lure of coin to entice her to come along. They go to the Bone Pit and she doesn't much like that place. Too many bones, too much blood spilled. Fenris grumbled about the Tevinter magisters who killed countless slaves there. She hates it when he has a point about anything. She hates how Hawke nods appreciatively at his 'insight'. Though… the Veil is thin there. It's always colder in those places, even when it shouldn't be. Despite the persistent grey skies that hang over Kirkwall, there are some places that never warm.

At least she got to see little dragons. That's always fun.

It doesn't seem they're in Kirkwall long before they're back in the Free Marches. Merrill doesn't know why she's gone. The prospect of earning coin is appealing. At this point she's torn between making friends with the rats in her home and eating them. Anyway, she can't keep relying on Isabela and Varric to provide her meals. How can she restore her people's past if she can't find work?

"Who is this magistrate exactly?" Merrill asks. "Is he like a magister?"

Hawke came to her and told her there was an opportunity to net a criminal and earn coin from the bounty. Merrill's head had been going foggy with all the texts she'd been reading on Arlathan, on the Fade and the Veil, spirits and demons… she reasoned it may be good to get out and get some fresh air. Now she's traipsing through the Marches with the Hawkes. Bethany and Carver are in tow, bickering amongst themselves for the most part but at her question, Bethany giggles and Carver shakes her head, grumbling 'Maker!' in that very irritated way that he often does.

"The Magistrate holds court hearings," Carver bemoans, "and for the right price I hear he'll take good care of you."

"The 'right price' is only in reach of those who live in Hightown, of course," Bethany says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

Merrill is constantly surprised by Bethany, whom despite her sweetness, reveals slivers of bitterness from time to time. Merrill glances between the two siblings. Bethany makes it a point to avoid eye contact but Carver is different. His eyes are paler than Hawke's but his smiles burn, corners lifting suggestively. Hawke makes Merrill heat but she isn't sure which way exactly. From anger, she's sure. Sometimes she doesn't want Hawke to look at her. Other times... "Is that how it is?"

"Those are only rumors," Hawke looks back at the group. "We mustn't assume."

"Aren't you assuming that we're wrong?" Carver sneers.

"I admire that he's sending out a small party to recoup this criminal. It's just. Most people would leave him to rot in whatever ruins he's trapped in," Hawke continues. Merrill isn't sure whether her endless optimism is masking any dread she feels or if she's truly lived such a sheltered life. Can anyone be so good? Or is Hawke foolish?

"Maybe he deserves to rot in a ruin," Bethany offers. "The magistrate never mentioned what he did."

"No, but he did offer good coin," Hawke says. "This will help us. And honestly, it's not our job to be judge, jury and executioner."

Carver laughs caustically. "Tell that to the trail of dead men we've left in our wake."

Hawke looks as if the statement has physically injured her. Merrill reaches out without meaning to and touches her arm, her fingertips only connecting with the steel of her arm guard, unlike the dismal weather and the chilly air, it is warm beneath her touch. "I'm sure they were very bad," Merrill says.

Hawke looks down to see the contact. Merrill wonders if she feels it. She walks on, looking at her without saying anything. It's Carver who grabs Hawke's arm and swings her back close. "Pay attention. Maker, you nearly walked off the cliff, you twit."

Merrill supposes she nearly did too.

* * *

They settle in for the evening, camping against a steep slate colored bluff. The wind has been picking up steadily for the past few hours and it's getting difficult to walk straight. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon, coloring the ocean red. Merrill looks anxiously at the stretch of water in the distance; it goes farther than the eye can see. Imagine falling in there. She's a poor swimmer. Especially with the broken bones she'd no doubt incur in the fall.

The Hawkes are setting up tents, the breeze making the fabric blow wildly. Hawke pauses in midst of their duty to look at Bethany. "Care to temper the elements? At least until we finish setting up tents?" Hawke asks.

"Ha, ha." Bethany gets slapped in the face with the fabric.

Carver notices and grins before turning his attention to Merrill. Furs cover his typically bared arms. Merrill is glad for she finds them somewhat distracting. She laments being unable to watch his muscles ripple beneath his flesh. "Come help me out," he calls out to her, which she does. She sets her small sleeping mat aside (provided by Hawke prior to departing Kirkwall) and takes one of the poles Carver hands to her, holding on to it and the fabric as he hammers various pieces into the ground. "I heard you didn't have a sleeping mat last time and you took Edith's." Edith? Who's Edith? "I was going to offer to let you share mine but it looks like you brought one this time."

"Carver!" Bethany scowls at him.

Carver smiles in response. He finishes hammering in the few remaining items before standing, gesturing grandly at the completed tent. "Thanks for the help. We can still share a tent?"

Merrill's eyes widen. Why. She's never shared a tent with anyone outside of her family and Mahariel. Is this something friendly? Or… is it something dirty? She isn't sure that sharing a tent with a shem is anything her clan would approve of. Then again, she was entrusted to the care of Hawke, wasn't she? And they have been kind. The tents are so small. Sharing one with Carver, she'd practically—

She can't dwell on it longer, turning sharply at Hawke's small stream of obscenities. The hammer lies to the side of her and she holds her hand gingerly. Her face is flushed red but Merrill doesn't know if it's from the cold or the pain. She steps to her but Bethany's already kneeling at her side, a hand covering Hawke's own.

"You can be such a clutz," Bethany says gently, healing the hurt as easily as she's said the words. There's something else that she says to Hawke but so softly that Merrill couldn't possibly hear what it is. Bethany looks between her siblings, the tents and then Merrill. "I think it's best if Merrill and I share a tent."

All three Hawkes look like some kicked little puppy but Merrill, for the life of her, can't figure out why.

* * *

Merrill's blood boils but Hawke is blithely unaware. It is as the city-elves have said—shems don't give a damn for elves; they care only for their own skin. Merrill never put much stock in Hawke. She is a capable woman with a sword, she pretends to have integrity but faced with adversity, faced with the power of position she cowers; she refuses to act. And now, now faced with a murderer who has taken dozens of elvhen children she will return him to the shem court system that will free him, again and again, to terrorize her people's youngest kin. "Human laws don't value elvhen lives, my friend," Merrill says, nearly sneering.

"That's not true," Hawke says to her, vexed. "If such an injustice exists—it is not known. Aveline would not allow this. The guard is better than this."

"The Guard can't wipe their ass without asking for a hand to aid them," Carver crosses his arms, glowering at the guard Nabil. "Elves don't mean much to humans unless they're on their knees in a kitchen or at the Blooming Rose. That's the sad truth of it."

"Honestly, Carver," Bethany cheeks burn scarlet. She looks as if she wants for the sand to swallow her whole.

"That isn't true," Hawke says again, more adamantly, her voice growing harder in a way that Merrill has never heard. Hawke is defensive and Merrill knows that somewhere deep inside she knows Merrill is right. "I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding," she says to the group. She looks at Elren with such sincerity in her eyes that Merrill's anger is torn between spiking and vanishing altogether. Mythal, Elren's daughter, little Lia is dead. Gone. Gone at the hands of a shemlen. That is not justice. Do the shems even know the meaning of the word?

"There has been no misunderstanding," Elren says. Merrill can barely face him; she's embarrassed to be part of the expedition that is out to return this criminal menace to safety in Kirkwall. She swears that if they find the man within the ruins she will kill him herself. Why do shems think it's all right to just take elves away from their homes? Elves aren't property but shems insist on making them into it. "Are we so little to you people that even the lives of our children mean nothing?"

Hawke raises her hands, hoping to appease him. "Easy, Elren. If what you speak is true…then… he will not walk free. I assure you."

The meaty guard Nabil comes forward again. Merrill hates the fat on his frame, a sign of overindulgence when the elves must scrounge to survive. Yet this spineless creature, unwilling to stand up for what is right is given more than enough to sustain himself, more than what he deserves. His face is sunburned and grimy with sweat. Merrill can't help but glare at him. "Not wise, stranger. You try to take justice into your own hands, the magistrate'll have your head."

"I must do what is right," Hawke says simply, walking away from him.

They follow after Hawke, trudging along on the hot, unsteady sand, gusts of hot air blowing stinging sand onto their face. Hawke's face is unreadable, stony and too full of emotion in one.

"Did you actually mean any of that?" Merrill asks. "I know that man. Elren."

"You do know each other," Bethany remarks. "It seemed rude to assume."

Merrill ignores her. "He came to my home looking for that little girl. She's a sweet thing. Afraid of shems—for good reason." She ought to be bothered by the burning sand beneath her feet but she can't feel it now, she's far too fixated on Hawke, on her plan of action, on whether she meant her word to Elren or if it was just another promise to an elf meant to shut him up.

"Let's just kill the bastard," Carver walks decisively ahead to the cave as if eager to end the man's life. Merrill is happy that he, at least, is willing to take an elvhen man's word without constantly checking it against his own shemlen biases.

Hawke walks into the ruins, shield at her side, sword sheathed. "I refuse to believe that such evil exists in this world."

* * *

They're exhausted and covered in spider guts. Massive spider carcasses litter the dwarven ruins. The fighting has been long and arduous, shades and corpses crossing over from the Veil, rising from the grave to end them. Merrill wonders how much coin exactly they were meant to recoup from bringing the criminal back—not enough, she's sure, to cover the clothing, the injuries, the near falls of their party.

It's all worth it to see Lia again. Alive. Thank the Creators. The air lodges in Merrill's throat. She says some words to her but Lia looks at her without seeing her. Does Lia recognize her? It doesn't matter. She's alive. Her dress is torn, her hair goes in every direction, her cheeks and arms are swollen and bruised. Blood runs down her leg.

Bethany looks horrified. Carver infuriated. Merill shakes.

Hawke kneels in front of Lia, making herself smaller and less intimidating. She doesn't touch her. Hawke listens. She listens as Lia talks about Kelder, how he'd hurt her family if she didn't go with him, how he hit her, how he told her she was nothing, how the demons made him do it. And still Lia begs so earnestly for his life to be spared. Merrill doesn't look away from Hawke's face. With every word it is changed, with every word her eyes darkened, some of their luminosity taken, some hopeful part of her, dying.

* * *

Somehow, Merrill thought that Hawke coming around would feel better. An hour ago hadn't she been infuriated with Hawke for not taking Elren seriously? For believing that no shemlen man could be so cruel to a group that is discarded by society, whose worth is stripped, whose injustices were not worth amending? Yet here she is. She asks questions, calmly, some part of her begging to understand. Carver and Bethany are more direct, more antagonistic. Merrill never thought the face of evil could look so… common, could be so politely apologetic.

Hawke is sweating and pale when he finishes speaking and there is a thick tension in the air. "There are some things beyond redemption. I'll pass your apologies on to your father. I'm happy to say you won't hurt anyone ever again."

Hawke makes him kneel. He does, murmuring to himself, whispering what might be prayers, his head hanging low. The ruins suddenly feel tight and cold like a coffin and Merrill hugs herself. Hawke pulls the sword back. Her hands shake. How strange. They never do. They never waiver. She swings down but something goes wrong. His neck folds in on itself, his head still attached by a thread, Kelder gurgling. Hawke utters a small, pained cry and swings again. This time the head comes off rolling several feet. Carver swears and Bethany gasps. Hot blood splashes over their legs, soaking the ground.

"It's not like you to miss a cut like that," Bethany mutters more to herself than to Hawke.

"It's a good thing more than magistrates can be judge, jury and executioner," Carver says glibly. "May the Void take the bastard."

Hawke stumbles away and vomits in a corner.

* * *

The elation on Elren's face at seeing Lia is tempered by her visible state and the implication of the many atrocities she has no doubt gone through. Hawke refuses his coin for the good deed of rescuing his daughter, of ending a serial murderer. Instead, she looks at Lia, absorbing her young, anguished face at the revelation that her assaulter has been ended.

"I told you not to hurt him," Lia says blankly.

Elren is pained at the words, stroking her hair gently, wrapping an arm around her shoulder before pulling her away. The City-Guard disperses and Hawke is left following Elren and Lia with her eyes, her fingers twitching as the hot sun bears down on them all, scathing and making them wince.

"That poor girl," Bethany says.

Hawke is still. With trembling fingers she removes the handkerchief from beneath the arm guard and begins desperately to wipe at her hands. The blood has dried and she has a difficult time of it. Merrill thinks of taking her hand but she doesn't.

* * *

Mahariel hated shems. As kind as she was to the clan, humans put her on the defensive. Whenever they were stupid enough to wander into their camp… it wasn't pretty. Merrill didn't understand it at the time. She understands now. Some of the fools who arrived were slavers, thinking they were as defenseless as city-elves. Mahariel pulled her arrows back tight, drawing them back to her ear before releasing, pinning their legs, hitting them between the eyes. Merrill overheard the conversation she had with Duncan. She was so rude. But Marethari gave Mahariel to that man anyway. Since then, Merrill hasn't been able to get along with the Keeper.

Where is Mahariel now…? It's been years. Does she live? Does she remember her? Will she come for her…? What if she never returns? Merrill's afraid of spirits. Not the friendly kind who make bargains to help her fix Eluvians, but the other ones who leave the world unwillingly. Spirit or no, Mahariel continues to haunt her.

Hawke is collecting an assortment of rocks, driving them into the ground in the shape of a circle. She is focused on the menial task to the exclusion of all else. She hasn't said much since she killed Kelder in the dwarven ruins. They've returned to gloomier parts of the Free Marches. Blackened trees cut like shadows into the gray skies, dead leaves swirling around them by the breeze. Carver and Bethany are further down, trying to fish in a small stream. Merrill collects an armful of twigs and dumps them in the impromptu firepit Hawke has made. She kneels beside her. "Are you all right?"

Hawke picks up the branches Merrill has thrown down, laying them down in a way Merrill doesn't understand, shaping them in the firepit before ceasing motion and setting her hands on her legs. "I can't stop thinking of that girl. The things that man must have put her through. She's a child. It makes me sick."

Hawke hadn't vomited much previously, having had little in her stomach but she has been sullen since, despite the group's support for her decision to kill the man. "She's alive because of you. And you stopped that man before he could do it again."

"It's not enough."

"You can't stop what's already happened. You did a good thing today."

"That man was allowed to carry on with his foul deeds because of his father's status. Because of the elves status." She shakes her head. "It might have been prevented if not for prejudice. That little girl will never be the same." She exhales. "For the life of me I can't bring myself to understand why he did it. How he could do it."

"That's a good thing." Merrill covers Hawke's hand with her own. It's cold in the approaching chill of the night. Hawke looks down and then back at her. Merrill's face warms. "Thank you for correcting an injustice to my people. It is… reassuring." Her hand falls away from Hawke's. The guilt lingers. Mahariel hated humans. "But now you've no coin."

"The coin doesn't matter." Hawke says earnestly. Merrill doesn't tell her that Carver had grumbled earlier about her refusal to take Elren's coin. _We did a bloody good deed. There would have been no shame in taking the money._ Bethany defended Hawke but Merrill saw Carver's point. Elren would not have minded parting with it—it may have left him better peace of mind to know that Hawke would not one day arrive at his door expecting another sort of payment. Not that Hawke would but Elren doesn't know it. "Though I am sorry I brought you all this way for nothing. I'll find a way to make it up to you."

"That isn't necessary," she murmurs. Hawke watches her. Merrill bites her lip. Hawke sometimes looks at her the way Mahariel used to. But maybe it's different for shemlens. Why would Hawke look at her that way? She's small and awkward and worst of all, a blood mage.

Merrill searches for something to say. "Ah— that man, Elren—he came to me before. That girl, Lia—I met her in the alienage. She was sweet. She didn't recognize me today. She wanted to get out of Kirkwall someday." Merrill glances at Hawke and thinks she shouldn't have told her; Hawke's crestfallen. "I don't imagine she thought…" she takes a breath. "Anyway, Elren came into my home looking for her. Apparently he thought—they thought…" she bites her tongue. She takes a shuddery breath. "No matter where I go people think I'm strange. I've never belonged anywhere." Mahariel used to brush her thumb along her face, bringing her lips to her forehead. _Aneth ara, _she would whisper, 'my safe place'. She turned greetings into something more. No one ever thought of her that way. Merrill thinks little things like that are part of the reason she fell in love with her.

"You could belong here," Hawke says tentatively.

Merrill doesn't know where 'here' is. She doesn't know if she can believe it. Hawke's gaze is still upon her. Merrill wants desperately to look at her but stops herself, afraid.


	7. The Blooming Rose

A/N: Another chapter! I've got much more written though. I figure I should strike while the iron is hot. And this is the part where the story starts to get a tad bit darker. I promise to not bombard everyone, though.

Thanks for the patience and reviews, all!

drummerchick: hope you continue to enjoy!

ccryder: you are the wind beneath my wings. Seriously.

ravyna: thanks for tagging along. liars will be updated. i definitely don't want to hit it when i'm not in full form for it though- i'd hate to put out something rushed and that i'm not really into just for the sake of ending the story.

ledilettant: Hawke has many issues.

* * *

The thick perfume in the air at the Blooming Rose fills her senses, sticking to her clothes and hair. As it turns out, Merrill is partially right—it does have something to do with underwear. A little bit, at least. Carver is greeted frequently by many women (and a rather handsome male elf) but returns no greetings, keeping his head and eyes low, blushing up to his ears. Hawke flushes as well—however, she looks around as if in wonder, refusing many propositions, much to Merrill's uncomfortable relief.

Gamlen is here. He looks at her as a starved man looks at a plate of food. Merrill inadvertently inches closer to the Hawke siblings for protection.

It's all very exciting until they reach Idunna. Merrill doesn't know how she didn't sense it sooner. Maybe the woman is a better blood mage than she. Maybe she's been doing it longer. Or maybe Merrill let her guard down. Either way, Idunna takes them easily. Merrill's mind goes fuzzy and she's compelled to tell her everything about what they're doing, who they're looking for, who they've spoken to. There's really no harm in letting her go, is there? She's a… brothel woman. They're so friendly. At least, she thinks so. She could be agreeable forever.

But Hawke breaks free of Idunna's mind control. Merrill thought only a mage could do that sort of thing, maybe a Templar, she isn't sure. But she does. And the terror that rose like a cold fire the moment Hawke lifted a blade to her own throat, rises again just as sharply when Hawke ignores Idunna's protests and buries the knife in her stomach.

It happens so quickly.

Hawke and Idunna look equally stunned. Anders is smug and droll, as if forgetting that only a moment ago he was drooling after the woman and requesting they all do as she requested. "I really hate blood mages." His eyes dance over to Merrill, smiling more brightly still when he sees how uncomfortable she is. Why can he make a bargain with a spirit and be treated with dignity and respect while she is ridiculed and feared, mocked and threatened for the exact same behavior? It's not fair.

"You're not better than me," Merrill snarls softly at him.

He ignores her. Everyone ignores her.

Hawke cradles Idunna's body, lowering it to the ground gently before removing the blade. Her hands are washed red, auburn hair falling over her face making her eyes unreadable. Merrill is torn between hatred and some other powerful emotion, long forgotten and not quite recognizable.

"Maker, Sister. Did you really have to kill a prostitute on your first visit here?" Carver kneels beside Hawke. He touches Idunna's face carefully.

Hawke's voice is unsteady. "I don't know. I – I just reacted. I couldn't think. I couldn't move. She was taking our minds. I had to stop her. She was a blood mage."

Merrill's blood runs cold.

Carver gets to his feet. "I'm not going to shed tears over it but we can't just leave her here. Blast. I'd better go talk to Lusine. She's taken enough of my coin. Hopefully she'll listen to reason." He departs and Anders follows after him, making some off-handed remark about too much blood and magic in the room.

Merrill stares at Idunna's lifeless corpse. Hawke has a hand to her face, covering her mouth. Does she know she's smearing blood all over herself? "You didn't have to kill her," Merrill says sharply, so angry her voice shakes.

"She was dangerous. I won't risk innocent lives when they can be saved. I will not have that on my conscience. Blood magic must not be tolerated."

"You can't kill somebody for the things they might do…!"

"I'm not sure that's true," Hawke looks nervously at her, appearing to be troubled. She's left a bloody handprint over her mouth, making it look as if some invisible hand is guarding her silence. Her cheeks and lips are red with blood.

Merrill fidgets, body coiled too tightly. She is unable to tear her eyes from Hawke, so attentive now to her prey.

* * *

Carver casually shuts the door behind him as if he lives in the home. The thought momentarily flusters Merrill. The Keeper would be so cross with her if she took to living with a shemlen man. Not that she would. But the company would be nice. Someone outside of the rats, someone who talked back (maybe). What would Mahariel think? What would Hawke think? Sometimes she thinks of them and they switch faces, Mahariel talking like Hawke, Hawke speaking like Mahariel, memories tangling together against her wishes. All it does is confuse her and make her feel guilty.

Merrill wonders what the city-elves will think of Carver dropping by at night with a bag of food. Perhaps they'll think he's a merchant. Or a lover. She blushes, clearing her throat gently as he sets the bag of food on the table, pulling out breads and vegetables. His muscles ripple and flex as he takes the items out of the bag. Merrill approaches cautiously, as if the items were snakes. Snakes are much more common in Lowtown than good bread and healthy vegetables. She claps her hands happily but stops. This again. Everyone is taking care of her.

"It's from Edith," Carver says, "but I chipped in too."

It's from Hawke? Then why didn't she deliver it? It's not like her to send others on errands that she can very well do herself. It's not like her to be parted from her siblings. The last time she saw her was at the Blooming Rose. Both of them had been angry. Merrill hates losing her temper but hates it more when people kill mages simply for being blood mages. If it was some other person with a blade, would Hawke have let them go, sent them to Aveline to be imprisoned? Probably. But she might have killed them. She doesn't know and it frustrates her. "You're both very kind," Merrill bites her lip. "Thank you." Carver only smiles at her. "How is Hawke…?"

The question irritates him. He turns his back to the table, his hands gripping it, making the muscles of his arms look all the more defined. "On her hands and knees scrubbing the floors at Uncle Gamlen's. All eight of our mugs are facing to the right," he makes the motion in the air, "handles just so. Maker, she has the work ethic of an elf." He looks around. "Most elves," he clarifies. They stare at each other before Merrill looks around apprehensively. She does clean. Why oh why does no one ever come by when it's clean? Always after a burglar has come in. Carver frightened her so, walking in that way. Everyone knows the handle is peculiar, that it only takes a jiggle to find entry but it had alarmed her even so. "I suppose that's offensive."

"Is it?" Merrill brings a hand over her mouth, determined to not say a word until she's thought it out clearly. "It's an admirable quality to be…tidy," she offers.

"That's what I meant," he says with some relief before sitting. She sits on the bench beside him. He's so much larger than she is. He has the broadest chest and shoulders that she's ever seen on anyone. How did he get that way? Was he always big? "I've always been good with a sword—not my mouth. Edith, though… Don't let her fool you. She's got a silver tongue."

"Silver?" Was that something dirty? Merrill thinks of Mahariel. _Close your eyes. Lie down._ Mahariel's hands pushed the vestments up her thighs while Merrill gulped in breath. It was so hard for her to be still. Her heart pumped until it felt as if it would come out of her chest. Though she tries to cling to it, the memory twists, shifting until it's Hawke who has a hand to her chest, pushing her down gently onto the sleeping mat. _You could belong here._

"Turns into something of an idiot around you," he admits cautiously and looks at her. Merrill doesn't know what he's talking about. Still Hawke? "Are you blushing?" Merrill's face burns hotter. Why is she having these thoughts? She doesn't want them. "I've been thinking –"

Thinking gets people into trouble. At least her. Despite what others imagine, she spends a great deal of time thinking. No decision has ever been made carelessly no matter how foolish it may have been. The longer she holds her thoughts in, the worse it seems to get. It's best to ask the question. "Is Hawke angry? With me?" Merrill takes a breath and gets to her feet to pace. "It's just that last time we were at the brothel," the word makes her want to giggle near every time, "we got into... a disagreement. And I want to smooth things over but I'm not sure how or if I should... Is there something shemlens do in these sorts of situations?"

"When you disagree with whether blood mage prostitutes should be killed?" Carver asks. Merrill nods anxiously. "Can't say there's a formal procedure for that one."

"Do you think it should have happened that way?" Merrill asks and feels her nerves fray, wishing she could take the question back. Her hands clasp, twisting nervously, growing more nervous when she notices Carver following her movements.

"Would you have preferred she turn her over to the Circle? Same thing might have happened there. She's a blood mage who was taking advantage of Templars. What do you suppose they might have done?" He stands and looks at her. He hasn't answered her question but has instead given her more to fret about. Hawke wasn't right to do that. She doesn't want to be talked into thinking that way. It's all so complicated.

"But what do _you_ think?" she stresses.

"My sister always does the right thing, damn her. None of you delicate mage flowers are all that different to me. Idunna was good. Otherwise I don't have too much of an opinion about it," he says. Good? He coughs. "Ah, but never mind all that," he goes on quickly. "Maker, no matter where I go I'm bombarded with mage talk." Merrill thinks it's a bit silly that he should come to the home of a mage and not want to think or deal with them but keeps the opinion to herself. "I was _going_ to say—well. The Deep Roads expedition is coming up soon. And, I've been thinking—" he brings a hand to the back of his neck, scratching it absently. "Well—I've been wondering. Uh. If you'd maybe want to have dinner sometime. Somewhere. Not the Hanged Man. Somewhere better. You could have a nice meal and we could—well. Get to know each other. Talk! I meant talk. Blimey, why am I so bad at this?"

Merrill doesn't know what he's going on about or why he seems so nervous about it. She didn't know meals could be such nerve-racking things. "I don't think you're bad at anything." He blushes, straightening up, making him look even taller. He smiles. He looks rather handsome when he does that. "Is Hawke coming? To the dinner, that is." Merrill doesn't know if that'd be better or worse. Both, it'd be both. "I still haven't figured out what to say to make things right between us. I don't think she's angry." Does Hawke ever get angry about anything?

"She isn't," Carver says dully.

"I'm angry," she sighs. Carver looks sad. "Not at you!" He frowns. Merrill averts her eyes. "I said something bad, didn't I?" Why does she do this all the time? The worst thing is that she never knows quite what she's done. All she can do is stew in the mess that she's made for herself. "She doesn't have to come," she offers in a small voice. "We can bring who you'd like."

"Right," he says stiffly. Merrill's cheeks burn so badly she's afraid they'll melt off. She doesn't remember the last time she felt so uncomfortable. Aside from when those coterie rogues knocked her so violently to the ground that she thought she saw stars. It was night but the stars were different. "All right then."

"Or Bethany," she suggests, "if that's better." She swallows, tentatively lifting her eyes to his face. It looks the way it usually does when he's around Hawke: dark, frustrated. "Or it can be the two of us. We could talk about… your swording."

He rubs his forehead. "This went so much better in my head."

"How did it go?" she asks but he can't look at her. She feels as if she's being tested but she doesn't know what over. "It wouldn't be right if … I don't have any coin," she says, embarrassed. "You and Hawke have spent enough on me. Maybe… we could have dinner here? I could boil the water a few times extra—make sure it's fit for cooking. I haven't… actually cooked a meal here but. I could? We could? If that…sounds all right…?"

Carver smiles with relief.

* * *

It takes forever to leave Gamlen's. Hawke hates herself for running back to make sure the door is locked. It was locked each time she left. She turned it every which way to find fault, to find a trick that could undo the locking mechanism. She never finds it. She remembered it clearly but was still unable to stop herself from going back and confirming four separate times. No matter how she tries to ease off the vexing habit she cannot. Her mind is now somewhat at ease but it's gotten much later than she anticipated. It's worth it to keep her family safe. There's always been something lurking behind every corner, the boogeymen of the night. For years it's been the Templars, now in addition they have burglars to contend with. It isn't easy but it's worth it. Hawke tells herself it's worth it, no matter how she hates it.

Just as she hates Lowtown. The air is filthy, the city is filthy, everything is dirty and no matter how much cleaning she could do it would never be enough to repair the district. It's hard to make sure things will be fine when everything is in such disrepair. There are shady individuals everywhere. She remembers thinking in many towns before that if she kept things perfect, that there would never be a need for inspection, there would never be a need to draw the Templars eyes and her father and sister would be safe.

She _needs_ to get her family away from Lowtown. This expedition had better work out—who knows what will happen if it doesn't. She glances down. Her armguard is slightly off center and she adjusts it, taking a deep breath of the foundry air as she does. She coughs. Ash falls through the sky. When she first arrived at Lowtown she thought it was snow. Her excitement waned quickly.

The night is growing cold by the time she makes it to the alienage. She hasn't seen Merrill for a week and it bothers her. They live so close to one another. Merrill gets lost whichever way she goes but what's her excuse? Hawke imagines she's embarrassed. Should she have given Idunna to the Templars after what she'd done? What if she'd carried on while confined to those walls? Blood mages are dangerous. If her father taught her anything, he taught her _that_.

Even so… Merrill isn't really like that. It's different. She doesn't know any better or—Maker, Hawke doesn't know how to disagree with her without sounding condescending. She has to believe that Merrill is naïve. If she doesn't… what does it leave her with?

She reaches the alienage. Most of the elven population that typically crowds the area has dispersed. Is Lia here? How is she? Has she recovered? Can anyone really recover from that? Sure, they can. Hawke nods to herself. Lia will be fine. She has to be fine. She rubs her fingers anxiously and takes the steps down quickly.

Carver is exiting Merrill's home. Her heart thumps. She touches a hand to her chest and approaches him. He's all smiles. Hawke thinks of turning away but he spots her. "Sister!" He runs over, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Hawke isn't sure if she's being hugged or wrestled. "I've had the best night. I asked Merrill out. Eventually she got around to responding. We're having dinner, here, at her place. At some point."

"Oh." Hawke looks to their boots and then back at his happy face. She nearly doesn't recognize him; he's so prone to scowling. "That's wonderful news." It is, isn't it? Yes. What will make Carver happy makes her happy. But she feels ill suddenly. Is she hungry? She wants to vomit. "I'm happy for you."

"Thank you," he claps her on the arm. Hawke can't remember the last time she heard him say the words. He must be in great spirits indeed. "Anyway, I'm running late for beers at the Hanged Man. Want me to save you a pint?" She shakes her head and he moves along on his way.

For a minute Hawke stands in the middle of the alienage, lost. Then she goes to Merrill's door. She stares at it. The wood is weathered and worn. The handle looks loose. She doubts it will last much longer. She can't remember anymore why she came. Maybe she shouldn't have. Exhaustion pulls at her body. Her hands are red from the hot water she had them in the majority of the day. She isn't even presentable.

She decides it would be best not to come today and returns home.


	8. Fire and Ice

A/N: Thanks for the follows and reviews and support, everyone! You guys make me feel like I'm awesome or something. This story is turning into a monstrosity! Are the updates coming too quickly? Should I slow them down?

* * *

Merrill never much trusted the idea of Sister Petrice. Perhaps she doesn't trust women in chantry robes helping out lumps of qunari who refuse to answer even the most basic questions. Even so, she never anticipated it would play out as it did. Hawke was shocked when Ketojan set himself aflame, burning himself to death rather than live a life that does not meet the expectations of the qun. It all seemed a bit silly to Merrill. Imagine, throwing away a life like that because your people are addicted to tradition. What's the point in trying to please your people when they think of you as nothing?

Bethany is the most shaken. She is sullen and silent on the walk back and Merrill sees that she is fighting tears. Hawke's words have done little to encourage her and eventually she gives up trying altogether. It's strange to see Hawke with hunched shoulders. Hawke has barely looked at her in the past several days and when she has done so there has been hurt in her eyes. Merrill can't imagine why but she wishes there was some way to ease it.

"It's sad," Merrill starts to tell Bethany. The girl is younger than she is and sensitive. "But it's the path he chose. It's not one I would have chosen." Bethany glances at her. "It seems such a waste, especially now when he could have had his freedom. Why would anyone follow anything like that? If that's how you were treated?"

"I thought I had it bad. But to be chained, lips sewn shut. I cannot imagine it. It terrifies me to even think of it." She bites on her lower lip. "But in some ways I wonder if he carried less of a burden. The qunari do not force anyone to love or accept mages. They're nothing but a curse. Sometimes all the kindness in the world, all the sacrifices made on your behalf are too heavy."

Merrill looks at her warily, temporarily forgetting the heat of the flaming sand. The dear girl looks so sad. "The people who sacrifice for you don't feel like it's a sacrifice. I don't think so anyway," she looks ahead to Hawke who is speaking quietly to Varric. "It's worth it to them. For your safety. For your freedom."

"This world is not kind to mages." She looks at Merrill accusingly. Merrill grows nervous. She doesn't see the reason for it. "I don't understand you. You have everything. Your clan, your people do not fear magic. They accept you openly. You live a life of freedom but you choose to throw it away."

"And here I thought we were finally going to be friends," Merrill says sourly. Carver and Hawke are friendly enough (Carver more so) but Bethany, it seems, is always against her. Why? She's supposed to be the polite one. "I've had this argument with just about everybody. I'm not going to have it with you, too."

"Everywhere I look there are disagreements. I can't decide who's worse anymore. I used to be terrified of the Templars. I still am. But there are apostates out there who are just as bad."

"Apostates like me, you mean?" Merrill snaps. Bethany says nothing. "If you want certainty go to the qun. Or to the chantry. They'll set you right."

Bethany glares at her. "Why are you so defensive? You can't willingly choose to be a blood mage—when you aren't even being persecuted—and get angry when people question your judgment. If you thought it was right you wouldn't respond this way."

"There are only so many times I can respond politely before I start to get angry. It doesn't matter what I say. Nobody wants to listen. And if nobody wants to listen then it isn't worth opening my mouth. I'm sorry I'm not responding in the way you'd like."

"Don't twist things," Bethany mutters. Merrill regrets bothering to talk to her. This Hawke is the most forgiving of the lot—but she never seems to give her a break. "Haven't you figured out how jealous I am of you yet? I've always been such a burden. For years I've been thinking of turning myself in. It'll give poor Carver and Edith a break. I wish there was a place for me to be accepted as you are."

"Yes, I'm so well accepted that they nearly ran me out of the mountain," she takes a breath and sighs. "If you turned yourself in Hawke would be beside herself. So would Carver."

"This isn't easy. Everywhere I look I'm reminded of that."

"Nothing is easy. Not standing on your own two feet, not freedom. If you want it, you'll have to fight for it. Even if it means fighting alone." Merrill looks at her. Bethany's eyes are distant and sorrowful.

* * *

They're traipsing through Sundermount, off to catch the Flint Company who have murdered the majority of the Vael family. The quest struck a chord with Hawke who was adamant that the grievous injustice be immediately corrected.

_Why can't he do this?_ Carver complained. _No doubt he's distraught_, Hawke had responded and had immediately set out to set the matter right. Hawke doesn't scowl, unlike Junior. Varric isn't sure that she knows how. But there is something different. She's more taciturn than normal. Her jaw is squared. In battle she has been a force to be reckoned with, taking all the fun out of killing bandits and leaving Varric and Bianca with little to do. Leave it to Hawke to take the best part of adventuring.

"You've been in a foul mood, Hawke." Varric tells her and in effect, the group.

Isabela immediately perks, always satisfied to have some fun at Hawke's expense. She smacks Hawke's arm as they walk. "What's the matter? Did you run out of things to clean?"

"In Lowtown?" Bethany scoffs in her gentle way. "Not likely." Varric can tell there is something she knows that he doesn't. And here he thought he had a monopoly on everything there is to know about Kirkwall and its inhabitants. He catches Bethany's eyes, eyebrows arching but she shakes her head at him.

"Let's talk of other things," Hawke says dourly. "Furthermore, I reject your claims, dear dwarf. There is nothing that gives me greater satisfaction than righting a wrong."

Isabela snickers. It's a step up from the constant eye rolling. "She's actually got a point," Varric says. "Her bad mood is still as pleasant as Sunshine's usual disposition." Hawke beams back at them at the comment.

"I _much_ prefer dear Bethany's disposition," Isabela says, falling in step next to Bethany. She winks at her when Bethany turns to look. Bethany clears her throat, cheeks heating despite all this time, despite Isabela's constant flirtations. "I'm surprised the kitten decided not to join us. Doesn't she need some trees to frolic in or something?"

"She wasn't ready to see Marethari," Hawke says passively.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with being knee deep in mud," Varric grumbles. Boy does he hate being a dwarf in the overly muddy Free Marches in spring.

"I've caught Carver eyeing her," Isabela says gleefully. "I've already started a story, though I've only preliminary sketches for what will be in the finished work." Varric spots Bethany trying to catch Isabela's attention, shaking her head, putting a finger to her lips to quiet her but to no avail. "Can't you see it? A big strapping boy like that and a little thing like Merrill?" She moans amorously. "I can. And I have. Imagined it, anyway."

Bethany brings a hand to her forehead. "Maker, you really don't know when to be quiet, do you?"

"What? Why should I?" Isabela asks. "Maybe they're together now. Oh, how wicked. Good for them for skipping this bore festival."

Hawke's steps quicken, drawing her sword and creating a greater distance between herself and the crew. Bethany sighs and looks irritably at Isabela. "Well now you've done it."

Varric tsks. "You're usually brighter than this, Rivaini."

Isabela laughs. "You mean her little crush on Merrill? I know all about it. It's not my fault she's too dumb or uptight to do anything about it. Oh well," she giggles to herself, ignoring the ire on Bethany's face. "There's always the Prince Sebastian Vael. He had a delicious mouth on him. Did you notice?" she asks Bethany.

Bethany turns red.

Varric smiles and triples his pace to catch up with Hawke who rakes the land with her eyes with the intensity of a… bird of prey. Varric grimaces and takes out Bianca, happy to shoot someone's entrails out and take Hawke's mind off the whole situation. Seems weird to him that Merrill would screw around with Junior—especially when there's another interested Hawke in the mix. He chuckles. Maybe Daisy doesn't know it's happening.

"It must be awful for a brother of the Chantry to face something like this," Hawke says to him.

"Don't see what he's facing, exactly, seeing as we're the ones out here." He smiles pleasantly but Hawke is thoughtful. "So tell me, Hawke. Did you have a girl back home?" She looks at him sharply and then with bewilderment. "Or a boy," he chuckles and she relaxes. "Or did you leave all of Lothering pining for you?"

She laughs with embarrassment and Varric's delighted when her cheeks grow rosy. It's nice to see a hero type with some humility. "That's a stretch. I can't say I've ever left anyone pining for me. There were a few boys. Nice men. Good. Several that could have been special but somehow never were," she says guiltily. "Mother never said it—but she always looked at me the same way. As if there were something wrong with me for letting them go. But I didn't know what else to do. It would have been wrong to lead them on when I felt nothing."

"Seems reasonable."

"And anyway… they could never spend too much time with me in the home. Because of Father and Bethany. But even that was convenient sometimes. Maker, what's the matter with me?"

"You look fine from where I'm standing."

Hawke laughs. "I'll have to start bringing dear ones to this spot."

"Any particular dear ones you have in mind?" he asks. Hawke's eyes go distant again. "You know, Daisy once told me about someone. Some… Mariel? Mahariel? Something like that. Sounded pretty hung up. If Junior really is chasing after her, I don't think it will go anywhere."

Inexplicably, she looks sadder.

* * *

Aren't princes supposed to wear crowns? He does dress in white. His armor is so shiny. Merrill can see her reflection in it though the wrinkles in the fabric make it look as if she is frowning. Why is there a face on his belt? Seems a bit dirty to put it there. He looks at her, a sliver of disapproval in his gaze before he turns to Hawke gratefully, eyes softening.

He takes Hawke's hands in his, extolling thanks and looking keenly into Hawke's eyes. Merrill tries not to roll hers. He's laying it on a bit thick, isn't he? Hawke's smile is ever polite. Merrill looks around the chantry uncertainly, feeling like a third wheel. The Grand Cleric watches her closely. It's strange that all these kindly aging women in robes are responsible for the persecution of her people. This isn't her first time visiting the Chantry but it seems like there are never as many elves here as there are at the Blooming Rose… Why is that? Maybe the Blooming Rose is more fun.

"You have my sympathies," Hawke says to him. "I am only happy I was able to aid you in avenging the lives of your family by those spineless cowards." There's a moment where she seems to consider her words. He looks anxiously at her. Merrill wonders if being a prince is a very dangerous profession. "I cannot imagine the hurt you're going through. I've lost my father… it was… difficult. If I lost anyone else…" she shakes her head. "I will pray the Maker gives you the strength necessary to get you through this hardship. You are in my thoughts. And if you have need of me again…"

Merrill watches Sebastian take Hawke's fingers again. "I was truly blessed by the Maker when he sent you as my avenger."

Cleric Elthina clears her throat. Hawke and Sebastian separate hands. Merrill shuffles where she stands. Fenris and Varric have already left, bored of the chantry. Merrill meant to stay longer and speak with Hawke but she doesn't know if it was worth it. Anyway, she finds the prince to be a very annoying person.

* * *

"Do you like him?" Merrill asks. They aren't out of the chantry yet and the question bounces off the walls and turns heads. Hawke wraps a hand around Merrill's upper arm and drags her outside. Merrill glances back to see Sebastian leaning forward on the rail, eyes burning with curiosity before the doors close. Merrill pulls her arm free, a little too desperately until the both of them stand there awkwardly.

"Did I hurt you?" Hawke asks. Merrill doesn't know what she means. She doesn't know how to respond. The city-guard is everywhere. The air is crisp and cold, burrowing into her despite the sun and the blue skies. "He's a brother of the chantry. I wouldn't want to get him into any trouble."

"So you do like him?" She crosses her arms to ward the cold and wishes she could stop this line of questioning.

"I can't say that I know him very well but he seems like an honorable man." She regards her curiously and begins taking the steps down. Merrill hurries along at her side. At least the steps aren't icy today. Some mornings the stone is unbearable on her feet and then she ends up with the occasional bruises and scratches when she inevitably trips over something. "How do you feel about him?"

"He doesn't like me."

"I'm sure that's not true. What's not to like?"

Hawke's smile makes her knees weak. She thinks of Mahariel and how they always had to be quiet, how they could never even glance at one another when certain people were watching. They would know. The First has responsibilities and that responsibility to the clan, her duty, comes before anything else. Before love, even. They broke so many rules. Merrill would fret but it was different when they were together during the cold nights. Merrill would gasp her name, biting into Mahariel's shoulder to keep quiet. "Lots of things," Merrill mutters and takes the steps down quickly.

Hawke follows. "We saw Marethari at Sundermount. She asked about you. She misses you." Merrill walks faster but Hawke doesn't notice and it's impossible to get a decent lead. "Would you care to hear about it?"

"No, but I suppose you'll tell me anyway." She stalls once more when Hawke grabs her arm. This time Hawke doesn't release her. Merrill is relieved and afraid. Sometimes Merrill broods too. It's rare but it is an ugly thing. She's never quite managed to smolder the way Fenris does when he's angry. She just looks small and mean.

"Not if you don't want to hear it…" Hawke says. Merrill looks up at her. Soon Hawke is pulling her, tugging her down the steps and into various corners and thin walls until they reach a small and secluded garden. It's overgrown but beautiful, the vibrant flowers of spring encased in morning frost.

Can they stay like that, Merrill wonders. Why do some live and others perish? She looks at Hawke's hand, bound in leather and wrapped around her arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong and Merrill hardly thinks she's trying. It'd be nice to have her warmth on a morning like today if it weren't for the damnable clothing. No, no, that thought… is not …right. "Why have we come here?"

"There's something I must speak with you about but it demands privacy." Hawke finally thinks to release her arm.

Merrill looks around the enclosed garden. It's not like a noble to let a place fall into disarray like this. Maybe their elves are on vacation. Or maybe it belonged to a slaver or a magister they've since killed. Or maybe they're in Fenris' backyard, she isn't sure. It doesn't seem like he'd tend to these things. He isn't a very good elf. Maybe Merrill will return later to fix it. It's a little warmer here at least. Merrill looks at her. "What is it?"

"Your clan cares for you."

Merrill frowns. "Not this again."

"They care for you. They're family. Family is important. And family... They can go at anytime. Look at Sebastian. Don't squander the time you have left with..."

"With blood magic? You're repeating yourself, Hawke." Merrill paces, the grass crunching beneath her steps. It's so cold but she can fill any cold with anger. "I've already told you that I've made up my mind. Nothing you or they can say will change if. I picked this. I wasn't banished— but they would have made me go. They're not sad, Hawke. They don't miss me. I'm a reminder of a far better person who's gone. I'm worse to them than a shem. How often do you see Dalish entrusting any elf, much less the First to some shem?" Hawke turns her attention elsewhere, looking embarrassed. "You don't know anything about if. Don't pretend you do."

"I can tell when somebody cares for someone."

Merrill laughs dryly. From what she's heard Bethany, Carver and Isabela whisper about, the woman hasn't figured herself out. "Can you?"

"You're angry when you shouldn't be."

"And now you're telling me when I can and can't be angry?" She turns sharply to look at her. "You're unbelievable. I've said it before and I'll say it again. This fool life is my own and I don't care what you or my clan thinks. I must live it by doing what is right."

"You're not right." Hawke's hands settle on her shoulders, forcing Merrill to stop her constant movement. Merrill burns, the chill of the day forgotten. What she hates most of all is that insipid sincere look in Hawke's eyes. She's so damned condescending and doesn't even have the awareness to be smug about it. "What you're trying to do is honorable but your methods are dangerous to everybody. Most of all to you. I won't allow you to continue down this path without bringing you my concerns. I will not allow you to do this to yourself."

Merrill shrugs her away. "Don't touch me," she growls lowly. Hawke looks surprised. She steps back. "It's amazing to me that you have an apostate sister. Where are your speeches for her?" Hawke frowns. "Or are you another hypocrite like the Templars? Help some behind the Orders back and kill those that you don't agree with?"

"I am not a Templar," Hawke says cuttingly.

"Not yet," Merrill snaps. "If Bethany weren't here, what would you be?"

"Don't say that. Don't you dare say that. Don't you bloody tempt fate."

"But you agree with them don't you? You think blood mages ought to be locked away. Or worse."

"I have been on the run from the Templars the entirety of my life, as much so as Bethany and my father. You think you know but you don't. It's unwise and unfair to assume."

"Yet you're allowed to make assumptions and demands? I'm not some flat ear who will hop on a shem's word." Merrill looks at her. She has never seen Hawke look angry but there it is. Her fists are clenched, eyes burning, cheeks flushed. Merrill thinks it a pity that something so beautiful could be ruined by silly beliefs. "There's something I need to say to you, too. I'm angry."

"What the void for?"

"You killed that woman at the Blooming Rose. That Idunna," Merrill says hotly, nearly shouting the words.

Hawke's jaw remains tense, her eyes sharp and focused on her, near suspect. It is the way Fenris looks at her, it is the way Anders looks at her, it is the way Aveline looks at her, the way Sebastian looks at her, the way Bethany looks at her, the way the Templars look at their charges. Merrill has never seen the look on Hawke's face. Suddenly it feels as if the whole world is against her. But she's the one who pushes things, isn't she? She's the one that turns everyone against her. She is her own worst enemy. "You're still angry about that."

"You didn't even give her a chance."

"She was a blood mage."

"So am I!" Merrill goes still as Hawke closes in on her position. Hawke's hand covers her mouth. The leather of her gloves is cold against her skin, as cold and terrifying as doing battle against Templars. When they stop magic, when they take her ability, Merrill feels as if she were in a grave, as if her soul has been ripped away from her. How do they do that? It's like magic. Another kind of magic. Damn them. Damn Hawke.

"Don't shout that. Never shout that," Hawke says quietly. She keeps her hand over Merrill's mouth and Merrill glares at her before bowing her head and closing her eyes. They stand so closely that they're nearly pressed to one another. "I would fight them for you. But there are only so many I can fight for doing what's right."

Merrill pushes her away. She shakes. She realizes and nearly goes breathless. "Does Bethany know you agree with them?"

"Don't compare yourself to Bethany…!" Hawke's fists clench. "My sister would never willingly delve into such depravity. I _want_ to be on your side but you make it bloody difficult."

"And I suppose Bethany is the one exception to free mages?"

"Have you met any others that aren't mad?" Hawke glowers and brings a hand to her face. She turns her back to her. "Don't put words in my mouth. Accuse me of being a templar if that will satisfy you but know that Carver is the one who wants to go into training." For an instant there is such fire in her eyes that Merrill suspects Hawke will say something hot and cutting. It terrifies and thrills her. What's wrong with her? Hawke stands there, eyes locked on hers but then she settles and she pushes the emotion away. "I trust you don't want me continuing to hold your hand. Find your own way out."

And then Merrill's alone with the frozen flowers, looking around at the stone walls helplessly.


	9. Saturnine

A/N: These things happen. Also, a few updates a week it is! Thanks for the feedback, everyone.

A/N 2.0.: I promise this is a Merrill and Hawke story. I even wrote a good chunk of smut with them last night (thanks leogrl) that will eventually go into the story. They are definitely a slow build and though I have 16 chapters written, they are -still- a slow build. That said, things are going to change swiftly. The next chapter is a lengthy one and soon after that we will have women sleeping with women and all will be right in the world (of my readers).

* * *

_I wouldn't get your hopes up. The Hero of Ferelden values privacy rather highly._

Anders' words knocked the air from her lungs. Mahariel is alive. Mahariel is alive and… just never bothered to tell her. What does it mean…? What could it mean…? She's the Hero of Ferelden now. She no longer needs her. Did she ever? Sure there were words whispered in the dark of Mahariel's need. She took tight hold of Merrill's hips, pouring sweet words in her ear, catering to her ego. How could she have been so stupid? Was it nothing but words?

She leaves the group in Hightown without a goodbye. She arrives back at her alienage home hours later and cries. A question has been answered but it has left her feeling abandoned. Mahariel is alive. She isn't sure if the tears spilled are from relief or sorrow and heartbreak.

* * *

Their mother has left Gamlen's home to once again petition the Viscount. Carver never stays in unless he has a reason. Gamlen is off to get some 'fresh air' which is what he normally says when he's headed to Hightown and the Rose. It's pouring outside. Hawke and Bethany sit opposite of one another, their forks clanking too loudly on their plates as they cut their potatoes. Bethany's are mashed in a corner while Hawke's have been chopped precisely and in a straight line.

Bethany has given her the silent treatment for days. It's unbearable. Hawke bites into the lukewarm potato, chewing for too long. A drop of rain hits her hair and then her face. She fumbles for the napkin and succeeds in knocking the cup of water over on the table. Bethany frowns. Hawke stands and gathers another cloth napkin from the cupboard and soaks up the mess before sitting. She picks up her fork and stares at the food blankly. "You're going to have to talk to me eventually," Hawke says quietly.

Bethany is too smart to respond. Hawke sets the fork down, appetite gone. Bethany plays with her food, the same way she did when she was a girl. Not that Bethany's a girl anymore. She's near twenty years old. When did that happen?

"What can I do to make this up to you?" Hawke kneels beside her. Eventually Bethany turns her resentful eyes in her direction. "Sending Feynriel to the Circle was the right thing to do." Hawke takes her hand. "I'm not denying him what you had. Father trained you. Father learned in the Circle. That boy had nothing. They'll teach him. It will be fine, you'll see."

"That's easy for you to say," Bethany pulls her hand back. "The Dalish could have trained him. Merrill even said so."

"But the nightmares…"

"I can't imagine the terror that poor boy must be experiencing. You know how the templars here are. Look at what they did to Anders' friend Karl. Sister, you may have sent that boy to be made tranquil."

Hawke frowns. "I don't think I did."

"You've always been naïve. The templars here aren't like the ones in Lothering. They're not even reasonable like Wesley seemed to be. There's something wrong with this place. There's something dangerous about the templars in Kirkwall. They're fanatics." She sighs, dropping her hand to Hawke's hair. "Maker, I feel like you've changed ever since we arrived here." Hawke closes her eyes and rests her head on Bethany's knee. "It just… it isn't like you. Things have never been stable for us. But you were always constant. Lately… I don't know."

Hawke's chest is tight. Her fingers toy with the cloth of Bethany's blouse. It's difficult to breathe. It's hard to sit as if she doesn't need to get air into her lungs. Merrill's been angry with her. Now Bethany too? Is Bethany right? Is Merrill right? Does she think like a templar? Act like a templar? No. She's only thinking of the greater safety of all.

Idunna made her lift a blade to her throat. Mages complain of being made tranquil yet will strip the will of others to remain free. Hawke can think of no greater horror. She doesn't want to think of the battle with Decimus at the Wounded Coast.

Bethany strokes her hair. "You're thinking of him, aren't you?" Bethany has always known her better than anybody. Hawke has become accustomed to fighting corpses and abominations. It's a relief from having to harm and kill the living. Then there are blood mages like Decimus. There seem to be no other sort in Kirkwall. Hawke never knew such pain could exist. She was paralyzed, the blood boiling in her veins. She couldn't breathe. The pain was so dizzying she couldn't scream. The rest of the battle was fought while everything swirled around her, the room spinning, her arms and legs numb. She remembers the pain too vividly and has bruises and cuts for when the memory of the experience isn't enough. She is most disturbed by how angry she was when she finally killed him. It felt… different. "I can't imagine how painful it must have been," Bethany says.

Hawke only told Bethany of what happened. They try to keep an eye on one another during battle but sometimes trying to stay alive is enough to occupy ones complete attention. What could have been done anyway? They might have killed him sooner, she supposes. "I'm only glad it wasn't you." Had Decimus hurt Bethany that way Hawke would have… well. Maker knows what. Nothing easy. Nothing merciful. Nothing quick.

"Is that what's doing it? Is that what's changing you?"

"I haven't changed." She doesn't like the accusation. She exhales softly. "We fight criminals all the time and we turn them over to the guard. We can't do that with mages. They're too powerful. And you can't throw a stone in Kirkwall without hitting a blood mage. I was naïve to think that mages were all like you. But I'm beginning to see that the longer they're free, the more their desperation turns them towards blood magic. Is their freedom really worth the cost?" Bethany tenses, her hand stilled in her hair. Hawke opens her eyes and looks up at her.

Bethany's face is unreadable. Hawke recognizes it as the same way she arranges it when templars are near. "If templars weren't so set on hunting us down like animals they wouldn't turn to it. I understand why they do it. I never had to because of you and Carver, Mother and Father. But if I didn't have you. If all of you were just names in a book… I don't know. Freedom is a cause worth fighting for." Hawke pulls away from her and gets to her feet. She takes the dishes from the table and dumps the remainder in Courage's bowl. The mabari rouses himself and begins to eat. "You can't punish an entire group for what a handful of mages do." Hawke runs the water. Minutes pass. "Are you angry with me?"

"Of course not," she smiles back at her. "You're right. Of course you're right. Forgive me. I just… don't feel well."

* * *

Merrill careens between anger and depression. It's a little selfish, she supposes. Mahariel is alive. She is glad. What would have happened if Mahariel had reappeared to bother telling her the news? Maybe she'd have never turned to blood magic and that very polite demon to help her restore the mirror. Mahariel was always the driving obsession behind cleansing it. Somehow she believed that restoring it would restore Mahariel to her as well.

She can think of no reason why Mahariel wouldn't return. Even Anders left the Grey Wardens. She grew up with Mahariel. She should have come back. She should have told her. Merrill wouldn't have been able to stay away an extra moment. Maybe whatever corruption seized her took the love she had for Merrill. Just as Merrill's fixation on the mirror drove her clan away.

Does Mahariel love someone else now? Or has she finally realized she can do better? What does she have without Mahariel's love? Merrill's fingers trap the edges of the paper, ripping the corner. She whispers an apology and tries her best to straighten the pages. There's a knock at the door and she ignores it. Whoever it is can let themselves in to steal or take what they want. The knock comes again and Merrill rises and goes to the door.

Carver Hawke is there, a bag of food in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. It's all so lovely and all Merrill can think is that she hasn't bathed in days. She hasn't remembered to until now. Carver is all smiles. He wants to see her? But why? She isn't Isabela. And the title of First means nothing to shemlens.

"We never settled on a date," Carver says, "so I thought I'd just swing by."

They never settled on a date? Is this a date? She had told Isabela about the dinner plans and was told she was being courted! It alarmed her at the time. There was Mahariel after all… but now…

Now it's different and her hair is greasy. What a wreck she is. She scurries about the home trying to pick up. Carver hastily thrusts the flowers into her hands and helps though all he does is rearrange things, making room, moving things from one side to another. He doesn't have Hawke's talent for arranging.

"Would you mind very terribly if I took a bath?" She asks. Carver stops and stares at her. She looks at the flowers. Where did he buy them? Or did he take them from a garden? She would like that better. "It's just… I wasn't expecting you and I'm not at my best. You've come all this way…"

"Oh. Right. Well. I'll…start putting something together. You go… uh—you go do that."

Merrill waits for a dirty comment that never comes. She isn't sure if she's relieved or not. "You cook?"

"Sure I do. I'm a Fereldan commoner. We all have to make do. Edith and Mother taught me. But don't tell anybody that," he says with a lopsided smile.

Merrill nods. "I won't." She hangs by the door and looks at him. He's reaching into the bag pulling out items, smiling when he catches her staring. Merrill hurries and begins to draw a bath, stopping to place the flowers on the bed. Drawing a bath seems to take too long. Especially given how the faucet spits brown and grey water for the first few minutes. Once she's wiped the sediment from the bottom of the tub she begins the collection of the water. A flick of the hand and the water is warm enough to get into. That's the nice thing about being a mage. It doesn't work very well on lakes and rivers though. She's tried.

She sits in the water for a long time, staring up at the roof and thinking about Carver in the kitchen cooking a meal. What would she do if he came back to where she was? He wouldn't, would he? Probably not. But he'd be more likely to do it than Hawke. Merrill doesn't want to think of her but can't help herself. It's been some time since they've spoken and no matter how everybody likes to complain about Carver, he tends to be in better spirits than Hawke is. At least around her.

She remembers Hawke holding a gloved hand against her mouth in that garden. It was rude. So rude. But… Merrill picks up her small towel, wanting to purge the woman from her mind. She's only thinking of her because Mahariel's skin was the same color as Hawke's—pale but healthy, her hair a fiery auburn color. Mahariel's was longer, of course. Merrill remembers twisting her fingers in it. What does Hawke's hair feel like? Is her flesh as hard as her words?

She had looked so frightening when she killed Decimus. It's easy for Hawke to blame blood magic for everything. Sometimes Merrill thinks she hates the woman. So why can't she stop thinking of her? It shouldn't bother her what some shem thinks. But the elves think just as little of her. Merrill wonders if anyone will ever like her.

She feels depressed but washes, trying to rid herself of the melancholy, of Mahariel and Hawke. The smell of whatever meal Carver is cooking stirs her hunger. She leaves the water, wrapping a towel around her frame and creeping to bedroom. He isn't in there. Of course he isn't. She slips into her underclothes and a robe, tying the sash firmly around her waist before exiting.

"You made it," Carver says, stirring something in a pot. "I was beginning to think that I'd have to come check on you." She looks at him and he blushes before clearing his throat. Merrill comes closer and looks into the pot. It's a stew. He watches her before turning the spoon in slow circles again. "It's not fancy. I never said I learned everything they taught me. But it should be good. Edible, anyway."

Merrill smiles. "I don't think I've eaten in days. Thank you, this is wonderful." She touches his arm. It's hard and muscled. He stares into the pot, his face crimson. He's very charming in his own way, isn't he? And certainly handsome. "I didn't mean to take so long. Or to come out here in a robe. I didn't want you to think I'd drowned. The vestments take quite a bit of time to get into. I suppose if I stay in I could leave the leather and mail off."

"Oh. Right. Well… don't feel the need to get changed for me. This is just about done."

Merrill smiles before sobering. "Do you really mean to join the templars? I heard that from… well. Somebody…"

"Then it must have been bloody Edith. I haven't said a word to anyone else," he grumbles moving around the home to find bowls. They're on the floor by the door. Sometimes cats come in and they're awfully hungry. He takes them to the sink and washes them. Merrill is pleased the water comes out clear enough. He begins ladling the stew into the wooden bowls. "Look… I know what the words Templar Order mean to… well… people like you and my sister. Bethany," he clarifies. "But I was named after a templar. A templar helped my father escape Kirkwall, as a matter of fact." He smiles. "He must have been a good man. And I have the skill to do well."

"Oh, of course! You're very good at swording," she says. Carver is a wonder out on the battlefield. While he may stumble for words at time, when he's in the middle of a fight he's all confidence, for good reason. She can't imagine anyone wielding a sword like he does. He makes it look as if it's nothing but she doubts she could lift his sword even a few inches from the ground. He can cut through people like a hot knife through butter. Messier, though. "I bet you'd be wonderful at anything you set your mind to." He looks at her with surprise and she grows nervous. "Or bad! No? No. That isn't what I meant. I meant good. Was that wrong…?" Carver slowly shakes his head before taking a seat across from her. The candle lit on the middle of the table makes her nervous.

"Would it be so bad if I joined the Templars?"

"What do you think of them?"

"I think they do good work. Not all mages are bad. That's a given. Look at you and look at my sister. But the city needs protecting from some of them. And they need protecting from the city. I need to find my own way. There's good coin in it too. Enough to support myself, help support the family in some honorable way. Honestly, I'm terrified this Deep Roads expedition won't turn out. If it doesn't… Anyway, I've never wanted to be the man who lives without action." His eyes settle on her. "It doesn't need saying that I'd never turn you or Bethany in. Or does it?"

Merrill's throat is dry. She shakes her head. They eat. They speak of Ferelden. Carver doesn't miss anything about it except being a soldier and peaches. He blushes at that but Merrill doesn't know why. She forgets to change out of her bathrobe. They have meandering conversations that trail everywhere and nowhere in one. She feels his proximity as he gathers his courage and comes closer and closer to her as the evening passes.

When he's at the door to leave, he kisses her and she lets him. It's been so long since anyone has wanted to. His mouth is warm. His cheeks are hot. Her thoughts are filled with painful memories and she shoves them away and shuts the door before he can exit.

What is she doing? What is she doing? He's a shemlen. He's not Mahariel. Maybe she's tired of the clan. Maybe she doesn't think she owes Mahariel anything anymore. He is a Hawke. He's wonderful and sweet and handsome and he seems to like her. And for now that's enough.

_Are you sure about this?_ _Really sure?_ _We don't have to_. _No rush. I can come by for more dates_.

She isn't sure about anything. But she wants to. She's glad she didn't bother putting the vestments back on. It would have been a waste of time. She's so nervous she can scarcely breathe. But it does take her mind off the other things.

He's strong and Merrill's grateful.

* * *

"Why are you walking funny?" Isabela asks Merrill. Merrill flushes. Carver sputters. Isabela laughs. "Look here, Hawke! Looks like you have a spot open on your expedition. Carver has already explored the Deep Roads, hasn't he?"

Hawke looks back at the group. Only Isabela can look at her. She winks and grins. Hawke faces forward. Left, right, left, right, left, right. _That's it. You're walking. Don't stop. Keep walking._

The Deep Roads expedition is tomorrow. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She does this several more times but calm never comes.


	10. The Deep Roads Expedition

A/N: Warning! This is a Hawkes heavy chapter. Conversations are had about Merrill in this chapter but she is not in it. Edith and Merrill in the next chapter! For now, this very long chapter.

* * *

Hawke is uneasy as they walk away from the Hightown square, leaving the City of Chains behind. Bethany and Carver are in wonderful spirits, excited for the Deep Roads Expedition that they have long saved and scraped for. Hawke forces her smiles. It's all going to be fine, of course, but she cannot recall a time her mother has ever looked so haunted.

* * *

The Deep Roads are cold and cavernous. Bethany isn't sure she should have come but it beats being in Kirkwall surrounded by templars. Unlike she and Carver, Edith is in a good mood, smiling brightly and not letting the cold or impenetrable darkness dampen her cheer. _This expedition is going to change everything, I just know it._

Bethany's glad someone's convinced. She still doesn't like Bartrand or that cold glint in his eye. She's sure he doesn't want them here. Varric said as much but something about the dwarf continues to unsettle her. They've been traveling near a day now and there's only been a handful of darkspawn. Carver looks bored and anxious but Bethany's relieved. She had enough of fighting darkspawn while fleeing Lothering.

Hawke has been distracted for days, cleaning more rigorously than ever. She has never seen a place so clean as Gamlen's was the day they left for the expedition. Edith did such a good job that Bethany could have eaten food off the front steps. But Bethany knows that sort of cleaning means Hawke is troubled or worried. Bethany has a feeling that reason is Merrill. Or Merrill and Carver.

They camp for the night and start a fire. There's no kindling anywhere but Bodahn's boy, Sandal, has a stone that burns if you set it alight. Easy enough to do and the warmth it provides is considerable. "Do you suppose enchantments are their own brand of magic?" Bethany asks Hawke.

"I suppose so. If the dwarves can manage the lyrium and it keeps us warm I say it's a good thing." Hawke stares into the fire absently. She smiles at Bethany when she catches her watching. "What's the matter? You've looked out of sorts since we came."

"It's better than the Templars," Bethany admits. "But I don't like being trapped underground with darkspawn. How could the Maker make these things? Why so many of them?" The Blight is gone. Shouldn't they be, too?

Hawke finds her hand and squeezes it. "There's nothing to worry about. We've always come out of everything together, haven't we? And stronger than before."

"How long can that kind of luck last?" Bethany asks. "We've been lucky." Moments pass where they listen to the crackling fire. Varric and Carver sit further in the distance playing a game of cards. If she knows them, they'll be at it for hours before turning in. Carver brought a small bottle of beer to sweeten the deal and Bethany guesses that it will be at stake in their game. "How have you been?"

"Grand." There's a beat. "Just think, Bethany. Once we leave this place we'll be able to buy the estate. Mother will be happy again. You know how she's been since Father passed. And you and Carver will be nobility." She takes a breath. "I know Lowtown has been difficult. And all that hiding. It will be easier once we're in Hightown. Athenril was able to arrange it. And with all the coin we'll have we'll be able to do the same."

"That's _if_ we find anything. I wouldn't count our eggs until they've hatched." She sighs and folds her arms across her knees. "It will be nice to stop running," she admits for her sister's benefit and gets a smile in return. She's always been somewhat pessimistic. But given her life, it's hard not to be. She's had it easier than other mages. Sometimes she wonders what it'd be like to stand on her own two feet. In the distance she sees Carver throw his cards down. It'll be nice for Carver to not have to worry so much for her. Maybe this expedition _will_ change everything.

Carver and Edith have barely exchanged words in days. Edith has been friendly and warm but monosyllabic. If not for all the cleaning she's done, Bethany would imagine that everything was all right. Isabela filled her in on Merrill and Carver. Bethany wonders if Edith is heartbroken. She's never seen her that way, not even when things didn't work out with fine matches in Lothering. Maybe she's fine. Or maybe she's hiding it well. "Are you angry at Carver?" Bethany asks.

Hawke stares at the fire. Bethany asked him about it. He got defensive. _Edith's always been the one to take care of us, always the one to be the bloody hero. The people of this city respect her—what do they see me as, some blighted tagalong? A stupid younger brother to mock? Why should she have everything? Why can't I get the bloody girl? Just once?_

She nearly reminded him that he's had many 'bloody girls' as opposed to Edith whom she's relatively sure has had none. Bethany would normally press but she knows him. This isn't like that vapid Peaches in Lothering. Carver actually cares about Merrill. She remembers how excited he'd been when he came home with the news about the date. Then one night he didn't come home at all. Aveline told Bethany she saw him leave Merrill's at an obscenely early hour. It didn't take long to figure out the rest. She only wishes Isabela hadn't poked fun at the lot of them. She can be terrible when it comes to pouring salt on wounds. Maybe it's because she's a pirate.

Bethany touches a hand to Hawke's back, feeling it rise and fall with breaths that are too controlled. "There are other girls." And Edith can do better than a bloody blood mage. Hawke looks at her with surprise. "It's all right, you know. I don't know how you got it into your head that that sort of thing means anything to anyone. We're almost nobility. Which means we can do anything we want—as long as we get out of these Deep Roads."

Hawke smiles. "Lady Bethany Hawke. You'll be perfect," she folds her arms behind her head and reclines back. "High society will love you."

Bethany laughs. "They'll have to get to know me first." She falls back beside Hawke and thinks of it. Hightown, an estate and a title. Imagine that kind of life. Maybe she won't have to. Lady Hawke does have a nice ring to it.

* * *

The Deep Roads architecture is a marvel. Hawke can't imagine the thought it took to construct them in such a way that lava tends to light most everything around them. They are stone and sturdy, strong despite the hordes of darkspawn that occupy the walls. Some areas are warmer than others—still, they remain bearable.

Varric spends time with Bartrand but Bartrand never seems to smile at anything and when his loud laughter does come it's loud and mean. Varric never wants to explain the reason for it. _Believe me, you don't want to know._

Despite Carver's insistence on coming, looking near murderous when Hawke considered leaving him home on behalf of their mother—he now appears anxious and tired, pale and sweaty. Not that anyone in their party is looking altogether rosy. Even Bethany and Varric's cheer is beginning to drain. It's impossible to tell what time it is in the Deep Roads. Hawke already misses the sun. The days are spent battling hordes of darkspawn. They strike down a group only to instantly face another. It is exhausting.

Even the walking is tiring. Hawke occasionally stops to survey the place, standing on ledges and peering down at the river of lava. One such viewing is nearly her last. The rock at her feet crumbles and she slips so quickly she doesn't have time to think of who will miss her, of what life she will leave behind. She doesn't even gasp, her fingertips the only thing keeping her alive as she holds on desperately, staring at the stone that is giving away beneath her hand. The river of lava below is hot against the heels of her boots. Her fingers are going and then she's holding nothing but air.

Time slows.

Carver is there, wrapping a strong hand around her forearm. "I've got you," he says. His grip is strong despite the dark shadows under his eyes. He yanks her back to the ledge, drawing her further in. "You idiot. What would Mother say if I had to explain to her that you fell into bloody lava while sightseeing?"

"Something terribly guilt-inducing, I'm sure. Did you see the way she looked at me when I told her I'd be taking both of you?"

"I thought you'd give in right then and there," he says with a shake of his head. "I nearly did."

She smiles. It's only now that she realizes how closely she came to ending everything. "Thank you for saving me. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there. Besides die, of course." She puts a hand to his shoulder and squeezes gratefully.

"Of course," he returns the smile. The others have begun camping preparations. It was her own stupidity that took her away to explore without company. _I'll call out if I encounter anything, _she'd said. How foolish. "Edith… now that we're alone and I've saved your life and everything—can we talk?" She agrees and they wander closer to the campsite, stopping just short of where everyone crowds around a fire.

Carver sits against a wall and Hawke joins him. He's quiet for a long time. It isn't just the usual brooding. He's been different since they went searching for Sandal. Maybe he's tired of battling darkspawn. Maker knows she is. "Are you all right, Carver? You don't look well."

"I'm a bit run down," he admits. "Didn't think I'd miss the bloody sun this much. Maker, at this rate it feels as if I'll never see it again. Let's find whatever blighted treasure we can and leave quickly. I thought Varric was bad—but Bartrand's insufferable. Tell me I'm not as an annoying of a shit as he is."

Hawke chuckles. "You're all roses and sunshine compared to that dwarf."

Carver smiles again. "There are two things I need to say to you. You and I have rarely agreed. You know, in some ways we've had a bit of a rivalry. It's hard living in your shadow. You've never been one to gloat or anything," he thumbs at the cuts on his fingers before looking at her, "if you had, I don't know that I'd be able to stand it. It's like Uncle and Mother. Mother wrapped our grandparents around her little finger and you and Bethany did the same with our parents. You're older, I get it. And Father always favored Bethany because she was like him." Hawke waits. She wants to argue the points. She doesn't think her parents favored her—but she won't deny that their Father favored Bethany. "You've always been so responsible."

"But you've had more fun."

Carver laughs dryly. "I've had a few rolls in the hay. Honestly, sometimes not having any responsibility has been nice. If I'm not allowed to excel it's easier not to disappoint. Father never had any expectations of me and Mother has always looked to me as some little boy. It's annoying but I can get away with just about everything. Boys will be boys and all that."

Hawke rolls her eyes. She remembers in her youth, doing anything even a tenth as troublesome as Carver would get her into so much hot water. It would get her the switch. So she began to pay attention to order instead, to control, to being better, to being good. Everyone seemed to prefer that even if at times she did not. "Yes, you do get away with a lot."

"That was fine for a while. But I don't want it anymore. I thought this is what I wanted. Coming here, finding riches, living like some Hightown noble. Partying, wenching and drinking."

"Is that what being a noble is like?" She's only met snotty nobles who don't find her worthy of licking their boots. "It doesn't sound half so bad."

"Damn it, Edith, you're always serious. Don't joke now." Carver takes a breath. "I'm going to join the Templars when we return. That's final. Blight the bloody City-Guard if they don't want me. I'm a good man and I have valuable skills. I want to make my own way. We wouldn't have even gotten to this expedition if it wasn't for you. I won't live off your charity forever."

"It isn't charity. Carver, we all worked together to get here. None of us would be here if it wasn't for you or Bethany or the others." Hawke looks at him. He only scowls at his fingers. "Don't you believe that?"

"I will not be Gamlen. I will not live on handouts. I will not live on what wasn't earned," he grits his jaw. "I've messed up. I admit it. I've spent too much coin on drinking and at the Blooming Rose. Yes, I know you know all about that, thanks for not rubbing it in my face," he mutters. "You haven't asked me to carry my own weight. I know you would never ask. Your kindness is like a weight on my shoulders. I can't carry it forever."

Hawke curls her fists gently, thumb rubbing at her fingers. The anxiety is coming again and violently. There is nothing here to turn, there is nothing here to polish, there is nothing here to cleanse this and make it right. She doesn't know where to look, she doesn't know how to still her heart. "All right," she says lightly.

"Mother will be furious. You know how she gets. And Bethany, I don't know. She's my twin sister… the two of you have always been closer. Do you think she'll lose it? Maker, I wish there was some way I could make this not hurt her."

"It will hurt her," Hawke says. "You know how she fears them." She lifts a hand to his face, pushing the hair back from his forehead. There are bruises and dirt there, the poor thing. If only she had a wet cloth. "But it's your life. Eventually she will understand. If you'd like… I can be there with you when you tell her. Maybe…"

"You'll find some way to make it right? No thanks. I won't put that on you. It's my decision." He takes a breath and then exhales, a smile pulling his lips more naturally. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not shouting. Or making me feel like a bloody idiot or bastard about it." He looks at her a long time.

Hawke can't stop curling and uncurling her hands. She sees that he notices and is grateful when he doesn't question her. "You mentioned there being two things that needed saying?"

"Right." He clears his throat. "Uh… so… erm— …well… Bethany and Isabela and…Varric… they've had. Chats. With me." Hawke arches her eyebrows, not having the foggiest what he's talking about. "About. You know. Merrill." She waits. "And you." She frowns. What about them? "Like I said—I know we've always competed. We're the same and… well… it's always been hard for me to …beat you at anything."

"I never knew we were in a competition."

"Of course you didn't. You're too bleeding perfect to sink to such things, especially with a brother. Anyway," he says trying to shrug the anger from his voice. "Anyway," he says more quietly. "Look. At first… well. I didn't know at first. About, you know… how you felt about it. But then—I thought. Well… I mean, why are your feelings more important than mine?"

"They aren't." She's still puzzled.

"Well, good—. Good. I mean. Well. I ah—I really like her. And—I don't know. Honestly—I always thought you were… you know, asexual or something. You never pay anyone any attention. And really—I'm still not really convinced about what everyone's saying. You've… always been sort of direct about everything and you never…" Carver bites his lip. "Everything happened so fast. Strange. You know, given how oblivious she is. Half the time I don't know that she knows what the void I'm talking about. And vice versa. But still… I really enjoy spending time with her. And she likes me. I think she likes me," he says quizzically. "So… really, I just wanted to say that… I don't know. You know I told her about the templar thing. She asked, actually, said that you ratted me out. But… she's fine. She's good with my reasons. I think that's important."

"You're planning on being a templar and… she's a blood mage, Carver."

"What of it? Bethany's a mage. Look at that Thrask fellow. And my namesake. Not all templars are the same. Not all mages are the same. There must be exceptions. She's not bad. Merrill's not bad."

"I don't think she's bad," Hawke says quietly.

"I'm sorry if I made you angry. I'm sorry if I hurt you." Hawke stares straight ahead. "Look, you can get anyone you want. And can you imagine how much heat Mother's going to give me for becoming involved with an elf?" Hawke smiles tiredly. "With everything that I'm planning—you're going to be the favorite for sure."

"I'm not so certain. Carver—" There's a lump in her throat and she swallows it. It takes a few moments for the sting in her eyes to go away. "I've never wanted to be the favorite. I don't think I ever will be." She touches a hand to his hair, ruffles it. "Everyone thinks there's something going on with me and Merrill. But honestly, all we ever do is argue. She's a blood mage. And a woman and…" she shakes her head. "You needn't have troubled yourself with apologies and explanations." She kisses his cheek. "Let's go back to camp."

She stands and extends her hand to him. He normally brushes it off but this time he takes it.

* * *

"I don't see how the Wardens can do this all the time," Carver says. "I'd—"

The words fall from his lips as the gust of cool air comes, forcing him and the others back. They've been fighting darkspawn for hours. They're run down. And now bleeding great, a sodding dragon. He's never seen one this large before. The wings stretch out further than his eye can see. He thinks that Merrill would fancy seeing a dragon. Wait till he tells her he slew one. She'll be thrilled or sad. One of them.

They're stuck in a blighted hallway. Do they rush forward to not be trapped in close quarters or do they hope the blasted thing can't make its way in?

Edith is rushing towards it. Great. Large, open space it is. He only hopes there aren't any of the blighted dragonlings in tow. The buggers are his size, with sharp teeth as long as his fingers. Shouldn't they be older before they can spit fire?

"Can't we ever get a rest?" Varric asks.

"Is now the time for jokes?" Bethany asks. But the smile on her lips trembles. Ah, poor sister. At least she can fight here. _It's the Templars or the darkspawn, Mother, _she'd said before departing for the Deep Roads, _at least I'm allowed to fight darkspawn._ Blood and damnation, how the void is he going to tell her about the Templars? He has prayed to the Maker and hopes she will find some way of understanding. He can't think of anyone he loves more than Bethany. Not Edith, not the parents, not himself. _Maker, help her understand. _It would kill him to lose Bethany over this.

"It's what the dwarf does when he's nervous," Carver shouts over to her. He sprints down the hallway, reaching the open space. He's so tired. So bloody tired. Is he a wimp? The others seem to be faring well. It takes effort to lift his sword. And now that he's this close, he can't believe the size of this dragon.

It roars and bloody Edith is so close—but makes for a good size comparison. It could eat half of her in a gulp. It's easily as tall as six of him and much, much longer. Its scales gleam coolly in the golden light. If it weren't so dangerous he'd think it beautiful. Look at those wings!

It's spitting fire now, watch it Edith, ah—she raises a shield and blocks it, taking a hard swing at its leg. It's as big around as two of him. It makes a cut but not a deep one. "Keep moving," he yells at her. Doing so exhausts him, he's tired, sweat running down his face. Look at those bloody talons, as large as his face! Its hands, paws, whatever the void they have are half his size.

Bethany's hitting it with frost and it slows the dragon bitch but only for so long. Varric is jumping and rolling to the side. One hit from that tail and his spine may as well be crushed. Still, he's impressed at how quickly he fires those arrows off, one after another. One day the bow will be a real weapon. Carver races towards the dragon and swings down hard. Ah! There go two of the blighter's fingers! It screams and Carver laughs, despite how his ears ring.

For moments he hears nothing and feels a bit dizzy. Get it together legs, move, move, move! "How the void do we kill this thing?" He shouts at the others.

"Less talking, more hitting," Bethany returns.

"Oh, look! Banter!" Varric shoots an arrow and the dragon's eye explodes in a mess of yellow gook and blood. Not bad! Not bad at all! Maybe the dwarf isn't all talk. Still, wouldn't hurt him to pick up a real weapon.

"More of them!" Hawke warns.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me!" Carver looks at the little dragonling bastards stalk out into the open. Where the void were they hiding before? They're closing in on Edith, a pack of six of them surrounding her. How does she manage to always look so cool under any situation? Her face is resolved and focused, her steps sure. She's like a dancer in battle, dodge here, duck there, block to the left, take a hard swing to the right, Maker she's impressive.

The dragon is closing in on Bethany and Varric and he sees the panic growing in their faces. The dwarf has finally shut his mouth, his eyes dead serious. One of the dragonlings has managed to swipe its tail hard enough to knock Edith to her knees. Oh, Maker, no, oh, Maker. Bethany, to the right is near pressed to the wall. _Forgive me, Edith_.

He makes a bolt for the dragon, dodging the lashing of the tail. Gets Varric though, hurling him into a stone wall with violence. Is Edith dead? Is Edith dead? No, no, no, focus on Bethany. He jumps and swings the sword down with unmatched viciousness and is rewarded—the dragon is left with a shorter tail.

He sees Varric from the corner of his eye slowly getting to his feet, turning his attention to the dragonlings. He can't afford a glance back but he bets on it, turning to see several headless dragonlings on the ground. Edith is headed their way. Bethany is saved. His gamble was worth it.

"Move your ass, Sister!" He shouts at Bethany who dodges and weaves her way through the fire the dragon spits. It turns now, stomping in their direction. Each step shakes the ground, making it hard to keep their balance. Bethany gets a good distance away from it and he's relieved but worried. She looks so bloody tired.

The dragon flaps its wings and the three of them are knocked back. "You all right?" Edith asks. Each grumbles, trying to get to their feet and she moves forward. There's blood and sweat on her face. A screech from the dragon and a swing of an arm and Hawke blocks it with the shield, pummeled back a few steps in the process but not without reward. A sharp turn and she's cut into its arm, the dragon left with a thread of skin keeping the hand in place.

"We're going to win this," Carver says, with an unbelieving laugh.

Things go wrong then. He shouldn't have said it. He should have known better.

The dragon swipes with its other hand. Edith jumps back but it catches her. She doesn't scream. If she screamed, he'd know she was alive. His blood runs cold and when he looks at her she has a hand to her face. Maker. There is so much blood. It falls like a river from her face.

"Edith!" Bethany shouts. She runs to her.

"It's you and me, Junior," Varric mutters. "Let's buy them some time."

But it's as if the dragon hears them. It ignores Varric and Carver and heads straight for the sisters. The air is hot and humid, the dragon snorting fire. "Come here!" Carver roars. He isn't sure that Edith can see, her steps are unsteady but her hand finds Bethany and pushes her away. When Edith lowers her hand Carver is stunned to see how it is ripped open. For a moment he is completely still. She doesn't speak but he knows what she's getting at.

Focus on the bloody dragon. Bethany is still looking at Edith. He's never seen her look so scared before. Come on, Bethy. What the Void are you doing? The dragon is honed in on her now and she turns to look at it far too late. Her eyes go wide.

Carver runs. Move, move, move, move, he gets to her, hopes the dwarf is backing him up, shoves Bethany, smirks when she crashes to the floor, then he feels it like a thousand knives around him, like some embrace. Ah, great vantage point up here, up so high. His arms are numb but he moves them somehow, hacks over and over again at the dragon's neck.

Edith is still wandering like a madwoman. He'll save them. For once he'll be the hero. Look at Bethany down there. She looks so small. And the dwa

* * *

The dragon buckles and crashes to the floor, its long neck nearly severed.

Bethany shrieks. "No! No, no, no, Carver! Oh, Maker, no!"

Varric looks at Carver, still trapped in the dragon's mouth, his eyes open and unseeing. A smile on his lips. "Help me!" Bethany goes to the dragon, her hands yanking at the top of its mouth. Its teeth are as long as Varric's arm. Ancestors. Pulling Junior out of there might break Bethany's mind. There won't just be one of him.

"It's too late," he says and hears himself. His voice is different than usual, breathless and blank somehow, the opposite of Bethany. "He's gone. He's gone."

Bethany sobs. She won't give up trying but her attempts are useless. Hawke stumbles over. There are three large gashes across her face. Varric takes its from one splintered edge of a talon. One of her eyes looks blinded and torn open. Her lip is split nearly down to her chin. The blood won't stop running. Varric can see too much of her insides. Part of her ear is missing. Her armor is soaked in blood. She falls to her knees in front of the dragon and stares at her dead brother.

She touches his cheek, slaps it gently. Varric thinks she says Carver's name. Her blood spills onto his too pale skin. Are those black veins creeping along his neck and face like ivy? Bethany is sobbing. Hawke screams. It fills the tomb, echoing over and over into his ears.

* * *

Her eye is saved. Her vision restored. Varric tells her one of her eyes is a lighter color than the other. More like Carver's color. Funny how magic works that way. The tip of her left ear is missing. _Maybe you're half elf._ Varric suggests.

Three jagged wounds line her face, open and still bleeding, from her forehead across to her other cheek. From her eye across the bridge of her nose and downward. From the top of her lip, diagonal to her bottom lip, down her chin, towards her neck. _Leandra will never be able to marry you off now_ Varric says. He's trying. Hawke wonders if he knows any other ways than jokes. _You could just let her finish healing you._

But who knows how far they've left to go. Bethany's depleted and blank. They must save their energy. Hawke only needs enough healing to live. She can live with scars and deformities. There's no water anywhere and blood is caked to her face, hair and neck.

After Bethany finishes healing her she weeps into her chest. Hawke wraps her arms around her and strokes her hair. She apologizes and thinks there are a few spots around the home she neglected to clean. She didn't check the door four times. She didn't listen to their mother.

They wait until Bethany stops crying. They say a prayer for the departed to the Maker and leave Carver there, trapped in the jaws of the dragon before moving forward.

They return to camp and emotionlessly report the new exit they've found. They return to the vile place where Carver died and Bartrand locks them within so they may die again.

* * *

The Deep Roads are monstrously quiet. Tonight is no exception. If there aren't darkspawn to kill it's a tomb. It may end up being their tomb. They've still found no way out and they're running out of rations. They went in four with an expedition team and are reduced to three.

"I hate this place. I wish we'd never come here," Bethany says in the middle of the night. Hawke, who has been awake for the past several hours, says nothing. It's been days since Carver died. They're the first words Bethany has spoken. "I ruined his life. Right to the very end."

"He never thought that."

"I'm not stupid, Sister," the anger in her voice shifts to disbelief. "I just froze."

Hawke swallows. "I was careless." They're back to back. Hawke half-turns to look at her. "Do you blame me?" Bethany is silent. "It should have been me." The excruciating pain in her face, the throbbing that has tormented her has been an excellent respite from the unrelenting guilt that she has experienced for the past several days. She has not allowed herself to cry. She knows how Bethany worries. How Bethany would worry.

"He died for me."

"He died for us." They were all reckless. There's a beat. "I wish it'd been me."

"Death would be favorable to this. I feel like some part of me is just gone." Bethany pulls into herself. Hawke stares at her back. "This is going to kill Mother."

* * *

They are greeted with darkness when they exit the Deep Roads. Varric has been muttering about Bartrand for weeks. "And people ask me why I don't want to live underground," he says once they reach the surface. "I'll take the smell of rotting fish and abominations over that nug shithole any day." He looks at the two women and averts his gaze before looking at them. "I'm damned sorry about what happened down there. I know how Junior hated being fodder for my stories—but you can be sure I'll make an epic out of what he did."

"That's great, Varric," Hawke says but there isn't much feeling in her voice. Varric makes more apologies, reminding them, at least, of their riches before moving on his way. Bethany thinks of everything they dragged out. She felt like a monster collecting riches while her brother wasn't afforded so much as a burial.

She sighs, dreading the walk home. As much as she has snapped at poor Varric the past few days she's afraid to be without him. She's afraid to face their mother. What will it do to her? What will she say to Edith? What will Edith do when she looks in a mirror? She frets over papercuts.

The walk to Lowtown is a long one. Bethany is tired of walking. She wants to settle down. She wants to rest. The night is cold. It's hard to believe that she'll never get to hear Carver's voice again, to hear him boasting about battles or card games, to hear his sullen complaints or crass jokes. She never dreamed he'd be gone. It all happened too soon. Why did it have to happen the way that it did? She tries not to cry about it and takes several breaths to steady herself. Seeing her mother will loose the tears again, she's sure.

She's exhausted but lifts her head keenly when she hears a yell. Hawke's heard it too. She takes a step forward, lifting an arm protectively to bar Bethany from going forward. "Stay here," Hawke whispers to her.

"No," Bethany follows quickly after her and maybe Edith is too afraid to let them separate for long because she doesn't fight her. Bethany had forgotten the smell of Lowtown. Rotting fish and vomit indeed. Yuck. But even those disgusting smells are more reassuring than the constant stench of darkspawn guts and blood.

Moonlight spills over the craggy alleys of Lowtown and both Hawke sisters spot the boy at the same time. He doesn't wear robes but sparks come out of his fingers, seeming to confound him and enrage the templars that surround him. Bethany gasps but Hawke holds a hand up to her, urging her to still and quiet.

It's all the moment it takes for the templars to run him through, a long blade coming out of his back, his white shirt flushing red with blood. He makes a small, pitiable sound and slumps to the ground.

Bethany doesn't know why it happens. How it happens. Why it happens then. Why it has to happen that way—but she snaps. She hears Anders' voice in her mind, screaming for justice. She thinks of how the qunari leash and silence their mages like animals. She thinks of Karl forced into tranquilization, and the desperation of blood mages. She thinks of the murder of this poor boy, clearly unable to fight such a force, killed simply for being born the wrong way. She points the staff and the offending templar's neck is hit with such a force that it snaps. He falls to the ground dead.

Bethany looks at Edith whose eyes have gone wide. There is such horror in her face and Bethany doesn't know if it's because of her, for her, for the templars, of the templars. "I'm sorry, Sister," Bethany whispers.

For years she's hidden. For years she's run. For years she's been afraid. Not anymore. She has everyone's attention now. The templars charge.

Hawke unsheathes her sword. "Maker, forgive us."

Together, they create a bloodbath.

* * *

The templars bodies lie in twisted heaps on the ground, bloody and smoldering. Hawke isn't sure whether she or Bethany is more horrified. She looks much the same as those apostates who are caught by templars do—wild and desperate, terrified.

"I don't know what happened. It's not fair. It's not right. They get to keep doing that. They get to keep doing those things to people like me and no one does anything to stop it," Bethany rambles, her voice growing higher pitched and more manic. "For years I thought of turning myself over, of freeing you from the burden of taking care of me. Maker, I wish I could do it now. Carver gave his life so I could live. I couldn't let them take me. I couldn't make his sacrifice worth nothing." Bethany takes Hawke's hands. "I'm sorry. Maker, I'm sorry. I know I've made things so much more difficult for you."

Hawke can hear the clink of armor approaching in the distance. Whoever it was they were attempting to capture, they must have thought them a dangerous apostate. Just as Bethany is in her own way. But Bethany is different. Bethany is pure. Bethany cannot be trapped. Are they coming for Bethany? Or are they coming for that boy? Did someone they know give them away? Was it someone from their days in the underworld? Someone who's heard of their expedition and run out of coin?

The footsteps are coming closer. Hawke can hear their shouts. Bethany looks at her apprehensively, whatever it is that she sees in her gaze, she shrinks from it, becoming smaller. "I can turn myself in. I can tell them I did it. Carver's gone. I'm not sure I want to live anymore."

The blood drains from Hawke's face. She can't breathe. She locks her arms around Bethany. For a moment, they are a prison. She's lost Carver and she's going to lose Bethany. She's losing everything. How can one expedition take everything from her? How can her world fall apart so quickly? Bethany makes a pained sound and Hawke realizes she's holding her too fiercely but it's hard to let go. She hears them, closer, closer. Her voice trembles. "Run, Sister. Run. Never let them take you." She pulls back enough to look at her, to memorize her face. She's losing what her father's used to look like. She cannot bear to forget Bethany's. What if she forgets Carver? What if Bethany runs and she loses her? "Fight them if you must. Do whatever it takes to stay alive." She presses a kiss to her forehead. Tears run down Bethany's face. "No matter what happens, know that I'm always on your side."

"There they are!" A templar shouts.

Hawke releases Bethany, pushes her. "Go!" She lifts the blade once more. Her stomach turns. She cannot look back. Now she must face the Templars. Her chest heaves desperately but she cannot get air into her lungs. Yes, Carver gave his life for Bethany. Which means Hawke must never tell her that Carver intended to join the Templar Order. She would have turned herself in immediately. And even a desperate freedom must be preferable to confinement. But after what they've just done… it would be worst than confinement. It wouldn't even be tranquility. It would be death.

"The apostate is getting away!" a templar screams. He tries to go around Hawke to get to her but Hawke takes his leg. The templar crashes to the floor, blood spraying in arches. She's tired. She lifts the shield to block the mace threatening to split her head open. If she were a mage she might be afraid. The templar pulls back to strike again but Hawke thrusts her blade between his helmet and chestplate. A geyser of blood sprays hot in her face. A sword slams into her arm, banging it violently but not enough to cut through the armor. She dodges the next blow and lifts suddenly, driving the end of the sword into the eye slot of the helmet. She kicks a templar attempting to flank her to the side and yanks the blade out just in time to lop the head off a Templar attempting to run off and presumably tell others.

Blood pours down her face and armor, warming her in the cold night. She looks at all the templar corpses. She can't see Bethany anywhere but further away she can hear the sound of templars screaming, shouting orders. She can't fight anymore. She only hears a desperate wheezing noise. She doesn't realize right away that it's her, hyperventilating.

Hawke moves like a corpse to Gamlen's home. She crumples at the stairs and can't rise, finding the last few steps into the home impossible to take. She still has to enter the home and tell her mother the news. Leandra had begged her fiercely not to take them and Hawke had smiled, not troubled in the slightest.

_You've always worried so, Mother. It won't be anything we haven't encountered before. I will not let them come to harm. I promise._

Hawke puts her face into her hands and cries.


	11. Waiting

Merrill's head is foggy with drink. Isabela has been pouring all night. They have become closer since the Hawkes left on the expedition, taking Varric with them. For weeks Merrill was removed and isolated. Then Isabela knocked on her door, looking to gossip. She asked questions about Carver and Hawke that made her ears burn._Why do you have to be boring about this? Don't you know how curious I've been about him?_

So Merrill told her that Carver was nice. And large. That really got Isabela's attention but Merrill isn't quite sure why—it's very clear that he's far larger than she is, isn't it? Then Isabela began a tale in which _she_ was involved with the twins _and_ Hawke. Merrill listened rapt at attention, particularly to the dirty little details of a more animated Hawke before realizing that Isabela was only telling stories. She's as good at it as Varric is.

There were rumors of Bartrand's return but Merrill never saw him nor did she see any of the others who had lined up to go to the expedition. _Are you sure you don't want to come?_ Carver asked. He'd leaned down to kiss her and she gave him her cheek instead. Hawke hadn't paid attention but even so, it made her feel…strange. Carver rubbed her arms and smiled. _I'll be able to take you out to a really nice restaurant after this, wait and see._

She's thought of him often since then. She has never taken lovers carelessly. In fact, in her own way she has thought too much of what has been expected, what her people would say. Carver brings her number to two. It was different from Mahariel and it isn't only that Carver has extra bits.

Mahariel always moved with the confidence of ownership. Merrill never minded it, really. She was hers. Carver's something else. He treats her as if she is a special relic, something to be ginger with. He's a mountain of a man. No one on Sundermount would approve of him. Merrill thinks that's part of the reason she likes him. He doesn't remind her of anybody, not even Hawke. He murmured the Maker's name in her ears. It didn't matter to her. It made her feel special.

But it's been too long. Shouldn't he and the others have returned by now? She's asked the question several times, this night being no exception. Every time she asks, Isabela pours her another beer. _You'll soon have your man back for steamy nights,_ she promises. But that isn't what she's worried about. What about Varric? Aveline didn't like his brother. Or what about Bethany? They argue but she's a nice girl. She does want to see Carver again…

And what of Hawke with her flawless face and eyes always sharp, looking to the future, looking for the best in things and people? They're all capable. She shouldn't worry. She takes a long drink of beer and wonders how people can drink it. It's disgusting! But it's what Isabela does and Isabela must have her reasons for doing things. She's so fun. Maybe one day others will be as drawn to her as they are to Isabela. And she'll say something horribly embarrassing and they'll go away again.

When Varric walks into the Hanged Man the room goes quiet before bursting into cheers. Questions are fired from every direction and while Varric smiles, Merrill can see that it is strained. He's dirty and slumped, nearly passing the table she and Isabela sit at before Isabela takes his arm and sits him down. "Varric! I was beginning to think you weren't coming back. Merrill's been worried sick." Varric looks cautiously at her and more reservedly at Merrill. "How'd it go? Are you filthy rich? I'm putting all drinks in the future on your tab."

Varric wipes his face. "Well, the good news is that I am indeed filthy rich thanks to the expedition." Merrill smiles. Varric ducks his head. "But… things didn't go according to plan." He looks away from Merrill and to Isabela. "I'm going to need a lot of beer."

"I knew I loved you." Isabela says. Her eyebrows narrow apprehensively. "Why aren't the Hawkes here celebrating with us? Why aren't you celebrating?" Varric glares. "…Did something happen…?"

Merrill doesn't wait for Varric to speak. She nearly knocks the bench to the floor and runs outside. It's pitch black out but she can't settle herself. Where are they? Where do they live? She has an idea. She's sure she can make it. Merrill wanders the streets and alleys for hours. At least nobody hounds her anymore, that's something. People cross streets to get away from her and even the scarier elements resentfully look away. She should be flattered that she's so intimidating, or insulted that people fear her the way they do. She should be grateful that they leave her alone. And she is but…

Creators, why is Lowtown so confusing? So much time passes that it starts to get light again. She leans against a wall to rest and falls asleep instead. She wakes to Isabela kneeled before her, smiling worriedly. "Here you are, Kitten," she pulls her gently to her feet. Isabela is so different when there aren't groups of men around leaving her with something to prove.

"Did I miss them?" Merrill asks. "Did they go to the Hanged Man?"

"They didn't," Isabela says gently, leading her back to the alienage.

* * *

Merrill cries for him. It's strange. Despite whatever unnamed thing they had together, she had not anticipated to grow close to anyone. She hadn't thought she really had. She never thought she could care so much for a shemlen. And to think that he died so bravely, saving Bethany and Hawke. Merrill cries until her eyes are red and she can cry no more.

She breathes prayers to Mythal to watch over him. She goes to the Chantry and ignores the stares and lights a candle for him, stumbling along the lines of the Chant of Light and hoping that he will find peace at the Maker's side. He wanted to be a templar so the Maker must have meant something to him. Sebastian, who is there, comes over to inquire and leads her through a set of prayers. Merrill is grudgingly grateful.

The Hawke siblings are close. Anyone can see that. Hawke and Bethany must be devastated. Merrill has figured out that if she spends enough time wandering around she's apt to run into somebody she knows. This time it's a scowling Fenris, leaving the Hanged Man after a game of cards. He always looks at her as if hoping she would wither and die. Normally Merrill would avoid him like an elf after a game of terrible debts but this is more important than her pride. She begs him to accompany her to Gamlen's home and he complies.

It's Gamlen who opens the door. "We didn't send for servants," he says. "Or is this all part of Leandra's plot? Didn't waste time rubbing the wealth in my face, did she?" He smells of beer, his usual stubble having grown into a sloppy beard. Merrill is uncomfortable, unsure of how to proceed.

Fenris has no such reservations. "We are not servants." He straightens, eyes fixing darkly on Gamlen. "We've come to pass our condolences." Merrill brightens. Yes! Those. Those. She saddens thinking of how to say those words. What can she say? Varric said it looked like Carver's veins had gone black beneath the skin. Did he die of the blight? Did it take him like it took Mahariel? How she thought it took Mahariel. "Is the lady of the home here?" The title irritates Gamlen who spits to the side upon hearing it.

"Leandra isn't here," he says huffily, crossing his arms more tightly. "Now that she's finally got the coin to buy back the estate she's practically been camped outside of the Viscount's office. Not that that isn't preferable to the wailing she's been doing in between visits." Merrill frowns and Gamlen looks away uncomfortably. "Not that I'm not broken up about it. They were good kids."

Merrill's heart sinks. They _were_ good kids? Are they bad kids now? Worse, are they gone? All of them? Why didn't Varric tell her? Why didn't Isabela? Her thoughts race. "What do you mean?"

"Where are Bethany and Hawke?" Fenris demands. Merrill finds him intolerable from—well, always—but today she's glad to have him beside her. One small elf couldn't intimidate a child but Fenris is different. His markings seem to pulse in the fading light. Gamlen hesitates but Fenris grabs tight hold of his shirt, bringing him closer and scowling until Gamlen breaks.

"I don't know!" He sputters. "Bethany's gone. Never came back from the Deep Roads expedition. She's on the run from the Templars or… I don't know, the girl doesn't know if they took her. Or worse." Fenris shakes him and Gamlen continues to sputter. "She's looked but she hasn't found her. She's been gone for days."

"The Girl?" Fenris asks.

"Edith. Leandra's been inconsolable. Said some words to her. Nothing she meant. Those twins were her life. She told Edith to leave them here but the girl thought she was a big shot. She's like her apostate father in that way," Gamlen says with a wrinkle of his nose.

Fenris releases Gamlen, his features softening into something resembling sadness. When he looks at Merrill he's all stone again. "I've done as you asked. I suggest you leave these people to grieve alone and in peace. You aren't welcome in the best of times."

With silent, easy grace he descends the steps rom Gamlen's home and moves on. Gamlen shuts the door in her face.

Where is Hawke? She sits on the steps to wait for her. She waits until night comes but still she doesn't return. Creators. Are they all gone?

* * *

Varric has given her a very lengthy ball of red twine to help her find her way. She has tied it to the front door of her home and walked with Varric to the Hanged Man. Theoretically she'll be able to return home by following it back. That is if someone doesn't feel the need to cut it and leave her stranded again.

They're barely through the doors when a heavy rain starts to fall, raindrops the size of beads hurling down on Kirkwall. Thunder rumbles through the stormy skies. Lightning cracks making everything bright before the world is dimmed again. It's so depressing.

Merrill can't think of anyone who hasn't been shaken with what happened to the Hawkes. Isabela smiles so much she looks pained. She really did like Bethany and Carver. Why can't she just say that she misses them? That she's sorry it happened? Maybe it's her way. Merrill wishes it were her way. She collapses so easily sometimes, like wet paper.

Varric swore when Merrill told him of Gamlen's reports—that Bethany was gone. _Why the void didn't I just stay with them? First Junior and now Sunshine. If Hawke disappears I'm going to get really angry._ But despite his words he'd seemed worried and sad, losing several hands of Diamondback before abandoning card games for the evening.

Now all these weeks later they gather together at the Hanged Man but something is missing. Merrill never knew what a spark the Hawkes brought to the table. Hawke was a confusing blend of kindness and condescension. Is she really gone? Did the Dread Wolf catch her?

"I hear Leandra finally bought the estate," Varric says. Isabela arches an eyebrow before shuffling cards again. Merrill wonders if Hawke (if she's still alive) will go live in Hightown. It's so far away. It's near impossible to find her when she lives so close. If Hawke moves to Hightown they'll never see one another. It should make her happy. She should be happy. Hawke has been good to her but she thinks of Carver and becomes restless.

"Good," Isabela says. "Maybe that stuffshirt Hawke will move along and stop ruining all my fun. At least Aveline fights back when you sink your teeth into her."

Merrill imagines Isabela sinking her teeth into Hawke's shoulder, leaving a mark. She remembers when she bit into Mahariel's flesh to keep quiet during the night. What sorts of lovers does Hawke take? What kinds of things does she do? Creators, why is she thinking of such things? What is wrong with her?

The door to the Hanged Man has been banging open all night, gusts of wind forcing it inward, bringing with it cold sheets of rain. They've stopped paying attention to the desperate people of Lowtown running to the nearest place to escape the storm. Merrill takes a sad drink of her beer and picks up the cards Isabela has distributed to her.

It's only when she sees a flash of red from the corner of her eye that she glances behind her. A tall figure is climbing the steps somberly, dripping mud and water everywhere before disappearing like some fade shadow out of sight. Isabela asks her what it is but Merrill has left the table, taking the cards with her in the process. She follows the tracks. Maybe she's acting impulsively. Hawke isn't the only person in Lowtown with red hair. And it looked much darker than that anyway, didn't it? Almost black.

The rain is cold beneath her feet and her toes curl at the mud. Still she takes the steps quickly. She was given to the Sabrae clan when she was only four but even then the clan found her too curious, too apt to wander and explore without so much as a word to anyone. Maybe that's what got her in trouble. It's what gets her into trouble still. She remembers the day when she was wracked with grief and climbed Sundermount, seeking the demon, curious only for some small shred of knowledge that would help her.

She's at the top of the stairs and feels self-conscious. Varric and Isabela are looking at her. She waves and studies the floor. Hay everywhere, dirt everywhere… but to the left, fresh water and mud. Merrill follows it and arrives at a door. This has the potential to be very embarrassing. She musters her courage and raps on the door. She thinks to call out her name but doesn't think she'd be able to if she wanted.

There isn't a response. She deliberates and knocks again. Slow footsteps approach and Merrill's nervousness becomes dizzying. She's not used to interacting with strangers. Not that Hawke is a stranger. But if it isn't Hawke it will be a stranger. The door opens and Merrill sees a bloody, muddy shell of a person, the hair brown, not red. Eyes different shades of blue. Merrill's cheeks redden. "I'm so sorry," she bows her head and begins to move away. "I thought—I thought it was somebody else."

She takes several hurried steps away, hoping the shame will disappear, when she hears her name, soft and curious like on a mountain so long ago. Merrill stops and looks back. The breath goes out of her lungs. Oh, Creators. The Dread Wolf got her after all. The Dread Wolf tried to rip her from this world.

Merrill returns tentatively to the door. Hawke has always been pristine. Now she looks at her, tired and aching. Merrill lifts a hand to her face. She's never touched it but her hands recognize the shape. It's cold and sticky with bloody mud. Hawke sighs at the contact, closing her eyes. Merrill's heart twists. Creators, what happened to her? How could this have happened to her? Hawke is so strong. Hawke is untouchable. But here she is, touching her face. She looks smaller. "Let me in," Merrill commands softly.

Hawke steps back and Merrill closes the door behind them. Her hand lingers on Hawke's face and it feels only natural to pull her into an embrace. Hawke is still as Merrill whispers apologies. Condolences. Hawke's arms wrap uncertainly around her and for a moment Merrill doesn't know who clings to whom. Hawke trembles. Eventually she separates herself from Merrill.

"I'll draw you a bath," Merrill says. Hawke sits on the bed, head in her hands, a faint nod the only acknowledgement of Merrill's words.

* * *

Merrill looks around the dismal room. It's small and bare. It's only slightly better than Gamlen's home. There's a bed, a chair and a bureau that slopes unevenly. Merrill looks around the room and finds a small torn book. She tucks it underneath the bureau after some grunting and tugging. It doesn't remedy the unevenness altogether but it does help. Hopefully it won't be so noticeable now and Hawke won't have to worry the way she does.

Merrill sits on the bed, the storm still raging outside. A flash of lightning makes her jump to her feet and she sits on the chair instead before giving up altogether. Hawke exits the bath not long after. She's left the muddy cloak on the floor, along with the heavy armor. She wears a shift instead and pants that seem too loose on her, barely clinging to her hips. Merrill notices that first and her face second.

For a moment she wonders if she wandered into another room without knowing it. She does that sometimes. Paces until she's in another city-district or finds herself in a stranger's home or garden. Hawke's hair is red again, wet and clean, pushed back carelessly from her face. Merrill stares. Creators. What's happened to her?

She remembers how Hawke used to paint her cheeks and the bridge of her nose with blood. Now there are deep scars that line her face. Her delicate eyebrow is cut open with a scar that runs down her eyelid and beneath (this is the eye that is pale now), over her nose and across her cheek. Another long gash runs above from her forehead to her cheekbone. Lastly there's a cut that starts above the upper left corner of her lip, slicing into the bottom one and trailing diagonally down her chin, sweeping below to her neck. She hadn't noticed beneath all the mud. There's a piece of her left ear that's missing, making her look like a half elf blooded child. Creators. She can't stop staring.

Hawke shifts and that's enough for the hair to fall over her face in the usual way it does. It doesn't hide what's happened. Their eyes lock on one another until Hawke looks away. The thunder grumbles in the night sky. Merrill for the life of her can't make herself speak.

Hawke sits on a battered chair by a battered table and withdraws her sword from the sheath. She finds a damp towel to wipe it with but it's stained red. Has it always been stained red? Hawke looks sadly at it, her eyes closing briefly, something said softly under her breath. It seems as if she is losing herself to dark memories.

Merill finally finds her voice. "Varric said that your mother got the estate back. That's good news." Merrill twines her fingers nervously. "I know how important that was to…" Not to Carver, maybe but to Hawke and Bethany certainly, to their mother. Why is Hawke here? She never seemed to care too much for the Hanged Man. She's rich now. Aren't there other places she could go? "I thought you'd be with your mother," she says instead.

Hawke turns her head to look at her. How strange that her eyes have changed colors. It's disconcerting but the effect is magnetic. Merrill has difficulty looking away from her. Hawke clears her throat gently. "Mother…has requested some time to herself." She sheathes the blade. "And I intend to give it to her."

"…Where have you been?" Merrill cautiously moves closer to her. "We've all been so worried. Earlier…there was so much mud and blood. Are you all right?" Hawke inhales deeply. Merrill kneels beside her. She reaches out and takes her hand. It's Hawke who removes it. Merrill bites her lip.

"There were bandits." She runs her fingers through her hair. "I've been looking for Bethany. I can't find her anywhere. I told her to run. I told her to fight. For all I know she's dead too." She takes another breath and stands. Merrill rises as well. Hawke has left her. Her eyes are stormy. Merrill remembers when they were clear and true, unshakeable. When Hawke looks at her it's as if she doesn't know where she's come from. "Maker. I got mud all over you."

"I'm an elf. I don't mind a bit of mud." But she doesn't argue with Hawke when she goes into the bathroom to soak a hand towel in water. Hawke returns and with care begins to wipe the mud from Merrill's face and neck. The cool cloth is a contrast to the warmth of the room, making Merrill shiver. "Don't give up on Bethany," she searches Hawke's face, still unused to seeing the scars, "she's a strong woman, just like you." She grabs Hawke's wrist midstroke with the cloth along her neck. "I'm so glad you're all right. I was— I feared the worst."

She pulls her wrist away from Merrill delicately but stops wiping the mud away. She doesn't look at her. "Thank you," she says stiffly. She folds the hand towel. "I'm…sorry about Carver. You were very special to him," she nods absently. "He wanted very much to see you again."

Merrill's mouth is dry. "He was a good man. I'm sorry for…" What is she sorry for? She isn't sure. For what happened? She's apologized for that already. She'll make it worse if she keeps going on about it. How much did Carver tell Hawke? She still recalls when Isabela felt the need to mock them both in front of Hawke. Merrill doesn't know if she's ever been so embarrassed in her life. They spent one night together but Isabela made it seem as if… well, she doesn't know. She can't apologize for something she would do over again. "I'm sorry for everything," she says quietly. "I know what they meant to you. I know how you value family." Hawke swallows, blinks and sits on the bed with her back to Merrill. "Can I do anything? Do you need anything?"

"No," Hawke's voice is hoarse. Her hand clutches to her side. Merrill wonders if she's injured in some way. If the bandits didn't get in some hits of their own. Would Hawke tell her? "Thank you. I— I'm very tired."

Merrill stares at her back, at the way the shift seems too large on her, how her shoulders slump gently forward, head bowed. She wants to look at her. She wants to take away all the pain she is no doubt experiencing. She is surprised at her desire to kiss her, to tell her everything will be all right. But that would be wrong and insulting and would only make everything worse. Merrill watches her for some time longer, the strikes of lightning flooding the room with light before fading and leaving Hawke in shadows.

Merrill doesn't know what else to do but to leave. Maybe Isabela or Varric would know what to do. She's never hated her own inability to connect with others as she does now. She opens the door and is jarred by the way it creaks loudly. She hurries another apology.

"Will you get home safely?" Hawke asks. "Do you need..."

"No. Yes. I mean, yes, I will get home." At least, she hopes so. Oh, will the red twine hold up in a storm like this? What ruffians are out, she wonders? How many did Hawke fight? And where? If it were Isabela or Carver, they would tell her the story in great detail. Does Hawke have stories? Does she selfishly keep them all in her head? Or do they hold in her throat the way hers do when they're about Mahariel? "I'll be fine."

"Good."

* * *

The rain pierces through to the core of her. Despite Varric and Isabela's offers to guide her home, Merrill refused. When they asked her about the mud on her neck Merrill could only think of Hawke holding to her like a leaf holds to the branch in a storm. She told them she fell and went on her way.

Is she selfish for not wanting them to see Hawke? She likes to think that Hawke needs her space and privacy. Had she wanted company, she would have stopped at their table. She tells herself that but she isn't sure. She can't find the twine in the dark and wanders aimlessly for nearly an hour before tripping over it.

Happily, she takes hold of it and follows it back to the Hanged Man before changing directions and returning home. There isn't any part of her that isn't soaked in cold rain by the time she arrives. The floor of her home is also flooded, the door having blown open in the storm, the battered, cracked windows breaking inward under the stress of the wind. She'll pick up the glass later.

She hurries to set the usual bowls and buckets into place but attempts at sweeping the water out are useless. The torrents of rain keep bringing it back in. She sighs and moves to her bedroom, stripping off her clothing until she's in her underthings. Her mind cycles through memories of Mahariel and Carver, the way they pulled the straps of her underclothes down over her shoulder before kissing it.

She thinks of Hawke in an untidy Hanged Man room sitting in the darkness. A drop of rain falls onto her face and she scoots to the side, hitting the dagger that lies closely to a collection of tomes. She lifts the curved dagger, turning the handle slowly, the point of the blade burrowing into the tip of her index finger before it breaks her skin, a bead of blood springing to the surface.

Merrill remembers the first time blood was required of her. It was different from the vallaslin. That was another kind of pain, made to be had in front of the entire clan. As a First it's particularly important to be strong throughout it. Because of who she was, because of how strange she's always been, there were those who expected her to cry or cry out. There were those who wanted another reason to revile her. Merrill chose her vallaslin to represent Dirthamen: the Keeper of Secrets and Knowledge. The master of Fear and Deceit, the clan would later whisper amongst themselves.

That day of her blood writing, Mahariel stood to the side as Marethari carved the blood into Merrill's face. Merrill gritted her teeth and Mahariel crossed her arms, smiling, surer than Merrill herself that she would complete the ritual.

She did. Neither Marethari nor Mahariel were at her side when the demon asked Merrill to cut into herself to cleanse the shard of the eluvian. She was so nervous she'd shaken, having to cut into her hand several times before she was able to secure enough blood. The pain had been excruciating. She wasn't too experienced with fighting, outside of some shades in those ruins with Mahariel. Nothing had ever cut into her like the dagger had. Now she knows that pain was nothing.

She was relieved when she finished. The shard was clean and Merrill never thought she'd have use for it again. But the demon told her that she would have need of the power. He told her to seek knowledge. Her role as the future Keeper is to keep knowledge, to make sure that their past isn't lost. It seemed natural to do as he asked. It wasn't like she was going out of her way.

Soon there were other reasons to use blood magic. Searching for tomes and clues sometimes led her to fight spirits. It was difficult on her own. And it wasn't as if her clan would support her. So she used it a little more, only in desperate situations. No one understands that. It isn't as if she can do everything alone. She's always had to but it's difficult.

Blood magic _is_ magic. It's different but it's useful. It penetrated that magical barrier on Sundermount. And without it, she would have never met Asha'Bellanar, Hawke would have never completed her task. But nobody ever thanks her when she does things for them. They would rather judge her and pretend they know her. They don't even try to understand her.

They can judge her as they like. Blood magic is not the work of cowards. It takes a strong will. It makes you face something uncomfortable and dark. It dares you to overcome everyone's expectations. And in the end, you're really only hurting yourself. It's become easier to dig the dig knife into her hand and arms. The pain is…well, it's painful. Other times it's oddly intoxicating. Blood makes life tangible. You can point at it and say "there it is, that is life". It warms her when it's cold.

Not that she can say these things to others. She can only counter their ignorant arguments. She can't ever say that there's pleasure mixed with the pain. They already think she's enough of a deviant. Merrill frowns absently and presses the knife deeper into her finger until the pain is sharp enough to rouse her.

She draws her bleeding finger over her nose, marking herself as Hawke often did. Thinking of Hawke makes her tired. She climbs into bed. The cut would worry others but it doesn't worry her. She'll use some elf root later. She brings the finger to her mouth, sucking on the blood, slowing it as best as she can before she closes her eyes.

* * *

There is black everywhere. It is endless and thick. Merrill can hear the growls of darkspawn. She can hear Bethany shrieking Carver's name. Thunderous steps. The ground shakes. Carver's voice. _I really like her._ _She's not bad_. Hawke's voice. _I know she's not bad._

The darkness is being filled, slowly. Lava. Carver hold onto an arm. Carver in red. Templars. A dragon. A deafening roar that reduces all sounds to a bell like ringing in the ears.

_I'm sorry, Sister._ Bethany again. So many dead templars. What is this? Merrill doesn't understand it. There's Varric. _Maybe you're half-elf._ So many ruins. So much treasure. Carver pale and pasty clenched in the teeth of a dragon. His eyes are open. How can he smile?

Merrill doesn't like this. Merrill doesn't know this and she doesn't like it. The Hawkes? It's the Hawkes. Bartrand leaving with some piece of lyrium. Hawke's voice, absent of its warmth. _He died for us. It should have been me._

Everything swirls. The emotions are overpowering. Merrill turns away but it's everywhere. She wants the darkness. The light is blinding. She doesn't want to see. She doesn't want this. She didn't ask for this. _And she likes me,_ Carver says, _I think she likes me._

_Fight them if you must. Do whatever it takes to stay alive._

It's too much. She can't bottle her feelings. She begins to cry. She can't help it. What is this? What is this nightmare? Varric told her some details of the Expedition but nothing like this. Nothing so detailed and jumbled and hurtful. Merrill moves in every direction but can't outrun it.

She stops and closes her eyes, hands to her ears, not wanting to see, not wanting to hear. Turning into just another member of her clan. Go away, just go away.

Then: a delicate hold of her wrists. It's all black again except for her: Hawke, scarred and perplexed, looking at her curiously. "Merrill? What's wrong?" Her touch is so tangible.

Merrill startles herself awake. She looks around the room for Hawke but she isn't there. It's only her leaking, chilly home. Rain patters on the roof. Merrill tastes more than iron on her lips. She tastes salt. She sits up carefully and wipes at her face. Tears. She's been crying. Creators, what was all of that? What was that? A dream? Some terrible dream…?

Her finger throbs dully from where she cut it. She sighs and moves sluggishly through the small flood of water in her home to find elfroot.

* * *

Hawke shoots up in the bed. Was it the crack of thunder that woke her? The blinding flash of lightning? She wipes at her face. Her heart still hammers. She's tired of nightmares. She's tired of memories consuming her nights. Merrill isn't usually there. She curls her fingers experimentally, remembering the feel of Merrill's wrists beneath them. How strange. Hawke wonders why Merrill was crying, if she's okay.

She brings a hand to her side, it comes away red. The bandit must have cut deeper than she suspected. It must have all been some feverish dream.

* * *

A/N: Are author's notes at the end of a chapter legit? They always throw me. Thank you lovely creatures for reading and reviewing this story. I promise, the emo train stops here (to my knowledge). I was going to go into some further explanations but I'm going to go ahead and trust the readers on this one and explain later if need be.


	12. The Gallows

A/N: I've edited this way too many times. Blurgh. Beware! This is a dialogue heavy chapter. There will be lots of Knight-Commander Meredith (and templars in general) coming up, too. Along with people being jerks. But that's probably a given.

* * *

Hawke waits in the Knight-Commander's office. There is little difference, as far as she can tell, from the opulence of the Viscount's. It is a hot summer but it is cooler here. Perhaps it has to do with the high stone walls. Bethany would have said it had to do with the chilly stares of the templars. Hawke thinks of Bethany and guilt buries into her like a knife. Still no word all these months later. She sent Courage after her, to track her down, to bring her back but even he hasn't returned. Did someone kill her? Did the Templars kill her? Hawke stands. No. She cannot do this. She must not do this. She turns to the door.

The Knight-Commander enters. Hawke stiffens. "Sit," she commands. Hawke sits. She has never met the woman before but she knows without a doubt that it must be the Knight-Commander. Her presence is considerable. She practically saunters, confidence coming off her in waves. Hawke can't figure her age. Early to mid-thirties perhaps? She is radiant. Beautiful. Her eyes are both piercing and cold. Her hair is like fine-spun gold. She never imagined this would be the Knight-Commander. Though her presence is intimidating, Hawke is hard pressed to find a reason to fear her. Anders rants about the things the Templars do but honestly, the man is fanatical.

"You're Hawke. One of the few Fereldan refugees that snuck into the city despite my express declaration that no one must enter." Meredith rests against the desk, appraising her.

Hawke's face reddens. "My mother is native to Kirkwall. And my uncle lives here." She doesn't know how it is that she anticipated this meeting to go but this was not it. Cullen told her that she must meet with the Knight-Commander. That she was more discerning of Fereldans interested in entering the Order. At least she has a meeting. It is a start. A mildly terrifying and surprising one but a start none-the-less.

Meredith watches her intently. Hawke shifts in the stiff chair. "Ah, yes. Leandra Amell. You're an Amell. There's magic in the Amell line."

"I'm a Hawke."

"Daughter of Malcolm Hawke. A former Circle mage who escaped." Meredith crosses her arms. Hawke is unsettled by how much she knows. "That's a lot of magic running through your veins." Hawke presses her back to the chair and waits. "The Amells were next in line to become the ruling Viscount family. After the discovery of magic, however… Dumar took over. We can't have mages ruling this city. It's not safe. Look at Tevinter."

Hawke thinks she may agree but she isn't sure. Meredith's gaze is unwavering. "I'm not here for titles. Nor did I come to debate my family lineage."

"There is no debate. Fact is fact."

"You seem to know a great deal about me. I didn't think a Fereldan refugee would be worth the time of the Knight-Commander."

"It is my job to keep an eye on all matters of Kirkwall, especially individuals such as yourself. You keep cropping up in my reports. Your first year here was spent on petty crime." She picks up a stack of papers. "I have a list of all those crimes. Normally I'd forward this to the city-guard, if I thought them capable of handling even minor matters such as this. _However_, both Knight-Captain Cullen and Ser Thrask speak highly of you. You have aided the Order in recouping runaway mages. Why?"

Hawke's insides churn. Her mother would not like for her to be here. Things have been strained between them since the expedition. It was Carver's wish to join the Templars. It was a templar's courage, Maurevar Carver, that allowed her father to escape the Circle. If it wasn't for him, would she exist? Would Carver or Bethany? "Why not?"

"Do not play games with me, Hawke. Most mages have to be brought in kicking and screaming. Those with your sort of…" her lips twist and whatever word she meant to speak next is withheld, "blood tend to be sympathetic towards the mage cause. Yet here you are, asking to be trained in the ways of a templar. Furthermore, you recently went on an expedition that has left you with more coin than half of the Hightown nobles combined. The life of a templar requires sacrifice and humble means. Your desire to join us doesn't add up." Hawke averts her eyes. Meredith takes a vicious hold of her face until Hawke can't help but to look at her. "Do not think of lying to me, Girl."

"My brother intended to join the Order. He died in the Deep Roads before he could. My mother—." Her throat locks. She needs to look away. She needs to find a focus point. Her fingers move idly, searching. Meredith's gaze becomes penetrating, her fingers digging more deeply into her face. Is she trying to scratch at the truth? "My mother is more sympathetic towards mages because of Father."

"And I suppose you mean to tell me that you hold no such reservations."

Hawke thinks of Bethany and Merrill, she thinks of Anders who uses his talents for good. Does she hold reservations? Yes. She is unaccustomed to lying. She knows better the art of holding onto words. "I used to." Hawke manages. Meredith's hold loosens. "The mages here aren't like my father. They're violent." Idunna and Decimus, there have been countless others. She searches for something true, for something convincing. "There are blood mages everywhere." Meredith releases her. "I've fought them— _maleficarum_. The things they can do… the pain they can inflict is..." Even now she can distinctly remember the blood boiling in her veins. "It would be cruel to leave them loose to hurt innocents. Or to see good mages turn to desperate means to ensure their survival. I don't think they start out with bad intentions. We should help them. We should stop them. Everything's just so out of control," she says quietly. "The Templars can bring order."

Meredith cocks her head. "I see." She sets the stack of papers down. Hawke fights the urge to touch her face, to forget the Knight-Commander's touch. "It's strange to see such level-headed thinking in one with so much magic in her bloodline. You have a sister. Bethany Hawke. She assisted you in the apprehension of some of these mages." Hawke tenses. "Is she sympathetic?"

"It doesn't matter. She's left Kirkwall." Her lower lip quivers. It is with great effort that she gets the next words out. "I'm not sure she lives."

"Why did she leave?"

"She's afraid of qunari." Hawke rubs her fingers absently. It isn't a lie. She hasn't lied. She thinks of the templars she killed to ensure that Bethany got away. She must atone. She must pay her penance. "One of them killed some of our friends in Lothering. And the ones we have encountered here have not been peaceful." She bites her lip. "I thought this meeting would be about whether _I_ was fit for the Order, not my family."

"We must carefully vet everyone."

"I'd like to keep Kirkwall safe, the best way I can." She watches Meredith move around the desk and to a cabinet towards the back. She removes a small, glowing vial and sets it in front of Hawke. Lyrium. Hawke swallows the lump in her throat. She's heard rumors that drinking it will turn you into an addict. They say it's necessary to fight mages. It must be. But she's fought them before without it.

"It enhances a templar's abilities," Meredith uncorks the small vial, a tendril of smoke coming free with it. "If you are to join our Order you must drink this every day. It's an expense to acquire so we must be sure that those who seek to join us will take this seriously. Have you _any_ qualms? Those who leave us don't do well."

Asking will be taken as a sign of weakness. She must join the Order. For Carver. For herself. For the safety of Kirkwall. She won't end up like Samson. She clears her throat. "My mother has lost two children recently. I would like to remain close to her. I would prefer to continue as I have—working outside Circle walls. I think my abilities are better suited there than the Gallows. Of course, I will happily train here."

"Normally I would deny your request. Apprentices don't choose their roles and where they serve. However… you have a different set of circumstances and you have indeed proven helpful in securing runaway mages. You will train here. You will sleep here. After your training is complete you may sleep outside of these walls and you may continue as you have… as long as you behave in a manner that is befit to the Order. You will also remember that you report to me."

Hawke smiles, standing quickly and bowing. "Thank you." Hawke isn't sure whether it's the smile or the bow that puzzles Meredith but the expression is there none-the-less. "I thought there would be more questions about the Maker in all of this."

Meredith smiles shrewdly. "Your faith will be tested, you'll see. Do you believe in Him?" Hawke nods. "Can you follow orders?" Another nod. "Then you're fit." She takes hold of her forearm, a sort of shake. Hawke reflexively grabs Meredith. "Welcome to the Templars." She offers her the lyrium. "Now drink."

Hawke drinks without question. The liquid touching her tongue burns hot and then numbs cold, racing through her. She feels a wave of dizziness and nearly stumbles. Meredith's hold is secure though, her smile almost a smirk. "You'll become accustomed to it in time. Report here tomorrow at 0500 hours, Hawke. We've much to train you in." She releases her. "I trust you'll find your way out."

She isn't sure if it's the lyrium or the finality of the decision that relieves her. The guilt is slowly melting away. "Thank you for this opportunity, Knight-Commander. I won't let you down."

Meredith smiles wryly this time, the effect leaving her no less dazzling. "We shall see."

* * *

It's been over a year and still she manages to lose her way. Darktown is the scariest but she still isn't sure how she winds up in the Gallows. You have to take a boat there and everything.

The Gallows is frightening. It isn't just the gold slave statues that can't bear the space any better than Merrill can— it's the attitudes contained therein. The last time she came was with Bethany, Hawke and Fenris. Hawke had prodded Fenris gently with questions but Fenris had not hesitated to cast all blame on mages. What did he call it—the tyranny of magic? Something like that? Even Bethany had rolled her eyes. It's easy for others to cast stones. It's easy to blame all problems on mages. Lazy too, Merrill thinks.

Still, she tries to make herself inconspicuous. She avoids the eyes of Tranquil. Not because she thinks they'll give her away but because she finds them genuinely frightening. What must it be like, to live that way? Do those people leave spirits behind when they die? Not that she or the Dalish particularly like spirits.

The Templars are just as disconcerting. Most often they are clad head to toe in steel, their eyes veiled. For all she knows they're empty suits—which is befitting of their actions—merciless and without compassion.

She's browsing Solivitus' potions shop when she sees Hawke. Merrill stops. It's been months since the expedition. Hawke doesn't smile as she used to but she does smile. To templars even. Merrill sees her shake hands with Knight-Captain Cullen before Thrask slaps Hawke's arm, his face as bright and cheerful as Hawke's.

Merrill watches furtively, not wanting to get their attention, not sure if Hawke would want her to know she's here. Several minutes later she's discovered and Hawke approaches her cautiously. She stands beside her as if they don't know one another though she had been in Hawke's company before when she met with both men. "What are you doing here?" Hawke asks.

"I was lost."

"I don't suppose you could get lost in better areas?" She smiles faintly. "You shouldn't come here. You stand out. You're a Dalish, on top of that. They'll look at you. They'll remember your face."

"I already said I got lost."

"You could have left."

She glowers at the potions. When she accused Hawke of being a Templar sympathizer, Hawke made her feel stupid and small. Isn't it just as important that Hawke is spending time at the Gallows? She's lost. What's Hawke's excuse? "You seem very friendly with them," Merrill says curtly. "Why?"

So much time passes that Merrill thinks Hawke hasn't heard her at all. Then she speaks. "I'm joining the Order," she says steadily. Merrill freezes. Hawke arranges the potions in straight lines. Solivitus watches curiously, perhaps worriedly but says nothing. Hawke's lips, scarred and with a line that traces their curves pinched inward, are set firmly. She continues lightly. "I've read books but nothing's as good as actual training. Both Cullen and Thrask vouched for me."

"What does that mean?"

"Hopefully a safer Kirkwall and less…dangerous elements. I've just met with Knight-Commander Meredith." Hawke turns the potions. Merrill hears them clink. Even though she sees nothing wrong, Hawke continues to turn them. Her fingers shake but she smiles. "I begin training tomorrow."

Merrill pales. "Dangerous elements…?" What does that mean? Doesn't that mean anyone with magic in their blood? That's what it means to a templar. Merrill has noticed how Hawke can say something in a way that sounds kind but often means swift and brutal justice. "Why are you smiling?" It's terrible, isn't it? Her stomach is knotted. Hawke's allowed to smile. Especially after everything that's happened. But… "What will your mother say? What would Bethany say?" Hawke tenses. The smile crumbles from her face so quickly that Merrill doesn't know if she ever saw it. "Anders will be so angry," she mutters and can't fix her eyes on anything. What's there to look at? Potions? The Tranquil? Hawke? She can look at her least of all. "I'm angry," she says, surprised that she can say the words aloud. "I know what I said about you and the Templars. You always denied it. But I was right. I was right." Creators, she wishes she wasn't.

The scar that cuts into Hawke's eyebrow always seems to make her expression change depending on the angle that she lifts or lowers her head. Instead of the usual defiance Merrill sees sadness. "The templars fight for a safer Kirkwall. That's a noble cause."

"You've seen the things Templars do," she hisses.

"And you've seen how magic has terrorized this city."

Merrill walks away. She hears the clink of potions, an exclamation from Solivitus and Hawke's hurried apology. A glance back reveals Hawke desperately straightening potions, righting them, reaching for coin in her coin purse. The desperation in her face is uncalled for. Merrill moves faster but Hawke catches up to her.

"Wait."

"No." Not that it matters. There's no outrunning Hawke if Hawke aims to catch her. She's so…fit. "Templars don't know moderation."

"Don't say that here."

"They hunt elves, extending their religious beliefs onto my people. Persecuting us for a god we don't believe in. Persecuting us when we've done nothing. They hunt people like your father and sister."

Hawke takes her arm. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I haven't struggled with this?"

Merrill tries to loose herself but Hawke's hand is tightly wound around her arm. "Are you going to turn me in? Are you going to march me up to the Knight-Commander herself?" She lowers her voice. "You want less blood mages on the streets. Here's your chance." Her eyes flash.

"Merrill, stop it."

"Have you forgotten that the Templars may have killed your sister?" She tears her arm away from Hawke. Or maybe Hawke's hand falls away. She isn't sure. "I never thought that dragon blinded you. Maybe I was wrong."

Merrill keeps going, anger coursing through her. It's only when she cools that she realizes she shouldn't have said it. Minutes later when she turns around, Hawke isn't there anymore.


	13. The New Recruit

A/N: Wow, this story is really long. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! They're so appreciated. There will be a few more templar heavy chapters coming up (I don't think this one really qualifies) before we move on to act 2. I meant for this to be a three chapter story, tops. Sigh.

* * *

The new recruit is dedicated. Meredith has never seen anyone so enthused, so focused, so ardent. She arrives early and stays late. She takes well to direction. She's receptive to criticism. Not that there is much to criticize, except her ability to constantly embarrass those who dare to spar against her during sword practice. It's a rare day that it takes Hawke more than three swings to disarm an opponent.

There is something to her nature that is more disarming still. Her smiles are genuine. She always extends a hand to help. She offers pointers only when asked. She devours the texts that are given to her. She ingests the lyrium given to her like a good girl.

She appears devout. She attends sermons at the Chantry. The candles make her hair glow like burning copper. Her lips move soundlessly in prayer. She prays fervently. What does she pray for? Whom does she pray for?

Each time she visits she gives generously. Some of the Sisters and Brothers look after her like starved wolves—the exiled prince Sebastian Vael amongst them. Meredith supposes there is a startling beauty to the woman, strange given her otherworldly eyes and the scars that zigzag through her face. Meredith overheard some foolish recruit ask her once how she got them. _Carelessness._ But the woman does not strike her as careless.

Hawke is a puzzling woman indeed.

* * *

Hawke yawns and drops her keys. Isabela watches her stare at them before eventually stooping to pick them up. They've been living several doors away from one another for months. Hawke left months ago only to return a few weeks later. To her knowledge she never stays. How _strange_. She's never met a person who didn't show some interest. Even Sisters have wanted to diddle her. She's even indulged some of them.

Isabela leaves the doorway, arriving just as Hawke pushes the door open. She follows her in without asking for an invitation. If she did Hawke would try to tell her something reasonable like she's tired or it wouldn't be proper, that sort of thing. Isabela must constantly do battle with boredom and Hawke makes for a powerful adversary.

"I thought some uppity noble like you would never slink back to Lowtown. Yet here you are." She shuts the door soundly. Hawke looks at her as if she were an intruder. Isabela supposes she is. It's strange to see her wearing leathers. It's strange to see what that dragon did to her face. There's something more to it. No matter how she hides behind smiles her eyes are haunted. "Have you heard from Bethany?"

Hurt flares over her features. "No," she looks away.

"Hey," Isabela touches her shoulder. Hawke faces her uncertainly. "She's all right. She's a tough a girl." Hawke nods absently. Isabela's hand slips from her shoulder. "Don't mope about it." Isabela looks around the room. It's frighteningly tidy. Isabela trails her finger along various surfaces but it comes away clean. She doesn't try to hide her disappointment. "Why are you here?"

"You're the one who snuck into my room, Isabela." Hawke touches several belts on her leathers but doesn't undo them. The glancing of her fingers makes the contact look like a ritual. Isabela takes a belt in her hand and pulls her closer. Hawke drops her eyes to Isabela's hand before lifting to her face. She speaks slowly. "How have you been?" Isabela gives the belt another tug and Hawke briefly closes her eyes, swallowing before speaking again. "Any luck with that relic? I never see you."

"Only because I see you first." Isabela unbuckles the belt. Hawke's breath quickens. "Listen… you're not exactly my type." She pushes her back. "Somehow you're easy on the eyes. You're here and I'm bored. Usually by you," she smiles. "Why don't we make the best of it?" She jerks another belt free and Hawke exhales shakily. "Don't you want to touch me?" Hawke grabs Isabela's wrists and squeezes them. Isabela smiles brighter. "You can be rough if you want. I can take it."

Hawke brings her face close to hers. "I have templar training in the morning. I've only come to—" Her eyes dart around the room but Isabela can't for the life of her see what she could possibly be here for. Hawke's face is red. Isabela wonders what that chopped up ear of hers feels like. What sorts of things does she learn at Templar school? Focus? Control? How to steal magic? Leave it to her to go train on how to make the world even more boring. Merrill had been so upset about it. It's funny. Before the whole Carver thing she could have sworn it was Hawke that she was interested in. Now that it's no longer the case Hawke is up for grabs. For screwing, anyway. "Please go."

"Are you sure? I don't want to walk all the way to the Blooming Rose." The walk will take hours. And as capable as she is the last thing she wants to do is run into some carta bastards. Last time she was out they gave her a few cuts that required stitching and took her bloody coin.

"I'm sure. Do you want me to walk you up there?"

Isabela laughs, not believing her. She lifts her face, pressing it against Hawke's cheeks. They're burning. She acts like she doesn't want it but her body says otherwise. "Do you still fancy Merrill?"

Hawke's lips brush her ear, breath hot. Isabela hadn't know one syllable could sound so anguished. How can she believe her when she says it like that?

* * *

The Eluvian is fragmented. All she has is the purified shard from the tainted Eluvian in the Brecilian Forest. It's going to be hard creating a new Eluvian. Getting it to work. But her people did it before. She's a First. She'll be a Keeper someday. She has knowledge. She knows the lore, she can use magic. It should be possible. It will be possible. It just might take some… trial and error. She will not leave the relics of her people be lost like Arlathan.

She will not fall prey to the suspicious thinking of the Sabrae clan. The mirror is not a curse. It's a gift. Yes, nothing good of it came to Tamlen when he touched it and even Mahariel was stung by the Blight when she came into contact with it but—she refuses to believe that discovering it was mere chance. Maybe the Creators are trying to communicate with them. They have to regain their ways. Only then will the gods hear their prayers again.

Nothing worth having has ever been easy. This is a test from the gods.

Merrill studies the array of silver shards on the floor. None of them reflect. For now. It's hard getting things with the little coin she has. She has to scrimp and save. She could ask Hawke for coin. _It's for a mirror!_ She'll say. And Hawke would give it to her. But it doesn't sit right with her that she should have to hide her motives. If she has to hide then it's like admitting she's wrong and she isn't wrong. Only a little proud. And she hardly thinks borrowing coin from the sort that oppressed her people would be the right path.

So much broken glass. She ought to be careful. Maybe she should put on shoes.

She doesn't. It seems contradictory to try to reclaim the old ways and don shoes like a shem might to do it. Even so, despite all the tomes she's found and read there hasn't been anything that suggests how the mirror might be created. It's like trying to complete a puzzle that lacks pieces. A normal person might give up. Luckily she isn't normal.

She hears the swing of the door and jumps to her feet, nearly stepping on the broken pieces of mirror in the process. She rips a blanket from the bed and throws it atop of the large chunks of tree bark that recline against the wall: the future Eluvian. It stands glumly like a spirit. When Merrill turns, Hawke is at the doorway of the room, hands stretched out to block any means of escape, should she try. Merrill doesn't know that she would try.

Even more weeks have passed since they last saw each other. Hawke spends her time between the Gallows and the Hanged Man. She never visits for drinks though. Merrill isn't altogether sure what her schedule is like. All she knows is that Hawke has chosen her side and it isn't the one Merrill would have preferred. "It's rude to walk into somebody's house uninvited," Merrill says. People do so all the time and she never yells at them. Maybe it's fitting that it's Hawke that she tells. Maybe she feels safe enough with her to chew her out. Or maybe it's her means of fighting back against the enemy. "Is this part of your Templar training? Going into homes uninvited?"

"No. Those lessons aren't for another few weeks yet." Whenever Hawke makes jokes, her face doesn't give it away with tell-tale smiles like Varric or Isabela. It leaves Merrill confused and conflicted. Should she be angry or amused? Not the second. And she makes it easy to be the first. "I know you don't want me here so I'll be quick. Carver told me that you knew he was planning on joining the Order. That you were fine with it." Merrill tries to control her breathing. "I have enough people picking fights with me. I don't want to fight with you."

"This isn't a fight. It's a disagreement." She pushes her hair back from her face. The only thing she fights against is the erosion of her culture and blighted Eluvians. But people always approach her as if she wants to fight, as if she's stubborn merely to spite them. How arrogant. "I know what I said to Carver. I remember those moments as well as if they were yesterday. There weren't many." She scratches her forehead and crosses her arms.

Hawke moves further in. She stands in front of her and looks at the blanket that she's thrown over the tree. Though obviously curious, she says nothing. "Everyone has different ways of honoring those they love. This is what Carver wanted, so I'm doing it."

"Would you do it if Bethany were still here?"

Hawke covers Merrill's hand, clamped around the fabric of her shoulder and loosens it. "Please stop throwing Bethany in my face," her words are calm and even. Her smile shakes. Merrill thinks that maybe she is a monster. "It hurts more every time you do it."

Merrill lowers her eyes. "I'm sorry. You're right. It's terrible. I'm terrible." She takes a breath. "But I don't think it's safe for me to say anything to you. I'm a blood mage. You're a Templar."

"You're my friend."

"Templars and mages aren't friends."

"I won't be your enemy, Merrill. No matter how you push at it." Hawke kneels to look at the glass. Merrill scowls. Once again, Hawke presumes to tell her how she ought to feel, how she will behave. She's never met anyone so arrogant. Why didn't she notice it before? "Why do you have all this broken glass?"

"It's not your business," Merrill says sharply. Hawke moves the pieces. Merrill wants to shout at her to not touch them but Hawke looks much too pensive, much too melancholy at her words for Merrill to snap at her again. Merrill wonders if she's always been this angry, if it's Mahariel's influence, if it's the constant exertion of being questioned or if she's merely hungry and frustrated at a project that looks impossible to complete.

Merrill looks over her shoulder, watching her arrange the shards of mirror. Hawke cuts her finger but doesn't react. Merrill wonders if she notices as she continues, with a nearly disturbing focus, to try to arrange the pieces to a specified manner. Merrill stoops beside her, watching her blood glide over the glass. It looks only to be like a cut to her finger, but it is deep. There are so many fragments of reflection that Merrill is unsure which to look at, which one is the real Hawke. Merrill takes her wrist but Hawke stares fixatedly ahead. "You shouldn't touch things that aren't yours."

The words seem to strike her. "Yes. I know."

"You're bleeding." Without rhyme, without reason, guided only by the irrationality of impulse, Merrill brings Hawke's bleeding finger to her lips. Hawke goes still but does at last look at her, unable to remove her gaze, compliant in a way, cheeks flushed healthily. Merrill feels the thrum of Hawke's heartbeat, faster and faster in her mouth, the blood strangely sweet against her tongue. There are whispers, desires, hot emotion, fleeting and pulsing, different voices. Her voice. Hawke's voice. A deeper voice. It fills her. She sees Hawke's slow and even, controlled breathing and spins, flies, body burning with want until Hawke forcefully pushes her to the floor and claims her mouth.

Merrill's eyes widen in surprise before she moans, yanking her closer, returning the kiss feverishly. Creators she wants this. Creators, she wants _her_. She shouldn't want her. She's the last person she ought to want. Not some templar shem. Hawke turns her attention to her neck and Merrill sighs, burying her fingers in her hair, not wanting to lose or forget this feeling.

Then the contact is gone. Merrill opens her eyes. Hawke kneels across from her, concerned. Merrill looks around desperately. Her mouth still tastes like blood, but all the other sensations are slipping away too quickly. Merrill stares at Hawke's mouth. She can remember distinctly what the crease on her lip felt like against her lips, beneath her tongue. There is a streak of red on the corner of Hawke's mouth. Did she wipe her face? She does wipe her face. Did Hawke kiss her? Has Merrill only imagined it?

Her breath is erratic. Hawke's face is as flushed as ever. Merrill can't speak. What was that? What happened? Did anything happen? The whispers of before are gone but Hawke is just as tense as she was. Merrill's back aches, as if having been slammed onto it. "Did something happen?" Merrill asks quietly. Hawke stares at her. "Did you… did we…" Hawke stops looking embarrassed long enough to look puzzled. "Why are you here…?"

Hawke waits a long time. "The Templars…" she says slowly, as if testing out language for the first time. "I'm sorry. I'm feeling a bit… muddled." She thinks for what feels like too much time. Merrill's anxiety paralyzes her. Hawke looks more nervous still. Merrill watches the blood beading on her finger. Did she make up putting it into her mouth? She's nearly tempted to do so again though she knows no reason for the compulsion outside of some vague feeling of desire. "I'm sorry if I startled you. Earlier. I knocked. There was no answer. I worried."

Merrill's face heats. Oh. Well. That does match up with her, doesn't it? Hawke isn't the sort to barge in. Not yet. Hawke trails a tongue experimentally along her lower lip, her eyes foggy and distant. Merrill watches, somewhat entranced by the small action. She twines her fingers. "Oh. Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't hear. Sometimes I get…" Not obsessed. Not that. "Preoccupied. People walk in all the time, without asking."

"That must be frightening," Hawke says. Is it? Yes. She supposes so. But nothing has happened so far. So it's okay. "No one should barge in uninvited."

Merrill bites her tongue. Isn't that what the Templars do all the time? She supposes Hawke finds that to be different, some exception. Merrill stares at the streak of red at the corner of Hawke's mouth. "Will we get along?" Hawke asks. Merrill watches her lips move. "I'd very much like that."

"You're not Carver," Merrill says. Hawke flinches. Merrill unconsciously brings her fingers to her lips as if to further silence herself. Hawke looks at her as if she's seen a ghost. Granted, those eyes of hers do make her look as if she can see into another world. They see more, Merrill thinks, than she ever lets on. "It shouldn't make a difference but it does. He should be here. Not you. In the Templar Order," she says hurriedly, feeling as if her face is melting as quickly as wax next to a burning flame.

"I wish he were."

Merrill looks at the broken glass. She can't stop thinking of what Varric said. Somehow she thinks it was the blight, not the dragon that killed him. But she'll never really know. That's the worst thing, she thinks. The not knowing. His face had been ruined like Tamlen's. Still… he was punctured clean by that awful dragon. She can see that, clear as day, somehow. Somehow. "I don't think he ever cared too much about mages. They were all the same to him. Believe it or not, it made me feel better about everything. But you… you're so focused. On people like me."

"I can't help it." Hawke looks to bite the inside of her lip.

Merrill wonders what she isn't saying. "I didn't feel as if the whole world was against me when he said he planned on joining. But we were on a date at the time. You and I haven't… ah…we." She swallows and touches her neck nervously. "He liked me more," she finishes lamely.

Merrill wonders if Hawke notices how she trails a finger along the scar of her neck. Does she know it could look like a threat? No, probably not. Is she thinking of Carver? "He did like you," Hawke says stiffly. "As I do." She clears her throat. "I am on your side, Merrill. Date or no. I only hope that someday we can move past this." She stands, regretfully.

Merrill hurriedly gets to her feet. "Wait." She brings her thumb to her mouth and takes Hawke's face in her hands, wiping the corner of her lips until the red, whatever it is, however it got there, is gone. Has she only imagined the warmth of her mouth? How? Is she crazy? They continued on as if nothing had happened. "There," Merrill says in a small voice.

Hawke's eyes search her. "I have to get back to the Gallows." She turns and Merrill pads after her. Hawke moves past the front door and Merrill stops there, as if having reached a barrier. How is it that she continues to say things in all the wrong ways? She returns to the mirror and the blood on the glass. How come everything is wrong? Not wrong. Off. Something is off.


	14. Order

They rise before dawn breaks. Hawke isn't sure whose task it is to move throughout the Templar quarters to pound loudly on a bell but it happens at the same time every morning. The recruits who share her quarters always startle out of bed but it takes less than a week for Hawke to become accustomed to the wake-up call. She lays in her small, hard bed listening to their soft snores, the way they turn on their sides.

She thinks of mistakes made.

It's four of them to a room. Quarters are expected to be kept clean. Hawke likes that part but is confounded by regulation. The Templar shield must rest at a forty-five degree angle instead of straight forward as if to shine the light of Andraste. Forward makes more sense. It displays the shield beautifully and deflects attacks. She likes the Templar shield. It's strong. Andraste's sword, burning with a purifying fire is a mighty symbol and it ought to be displayed accordingly.

Hawke's corrections aren't appreciated. She earns a hard whack to her arms with the flat end of the Templar sword courtesy of Ser Otto Alrik. _Are you too daft to follow simple regulation?_ Whack. _Do. _Whack_. As. _Whack_. Is. _Whack_. Asked._

Does Aveline train recruits this way?

She doesn't see why it matters. The flat of the blade always leaves a bruise. Sometimes he slips and the blade cuts into her arm. Yet Hawke cannot stop herself from doing it. She takes to setting it proudly outward after the others have gone to sleep. Inspection is early in the morning. She trains her body to wake earlier than usual to set it to regulation. The anxiety helps with this though it's also the anxiety that renders her incapable_ of just __leaving__ it_. She hates the resentful approval of Alrik for setting it the 'right' way.

She is a hen in a den of foxes. How many of her 'quirks' stem from not having wanted to draw the templars attention? And here she is. None of this is what she planned. She hates doors that others can manipulate throughout the day. She hates that she doesn't know who will open the door to her quarters each time. She hates that she can leave a room, lock it and return minutes later to find the door open. Everything feels nerve wrackingly dangerous.

What hours aren't spent training, studying, fighting, praying are spent shining her templar shield. She focuses on the engraved symbols, not on her reflection.

Meals are another matter. The mess hall is full of templars and the crash of trays hitting tables, forks clanking against plates, the clink of templar armor. If Carver were here, what table would he sit at? Would he sit with anyone? Would he be happy? Or would he think guiltily of Bethany as she does?

Hawke never dwells. She eats minimally. The food is better than what she ate prior to leaving on the expedition but there are others who don't have the means that she does. She wouldn't feel right taking from them.

And the silverware is never as spotless as she'd like.

She takes a cloth napkin and ducks her hands under the table to wipe at the fork and spoon. Her face reddens in the process, mortified that she is causing some insult, worried that others will merely find her strange. Her curious rituals have spiked since the expedition. Her body has been reduced to a knot of tension.

The Knight-Commander is an elusive personality but when she is near, all know it. The red hood that clings to her blonde curls only highlight its shine, the gleam of the crown on her hair, the startling brightness of her eyes.

Hawke sees her and no one else, forgetting even to continue to polish the spoon. Meredith notices her but doesn't acknowledge her presence, moving on her way.

Hawke's heart pounds nervously. Delicately she lifts the spoon from beneath the table, certain that others aren't watching. She inadvertently catches a glimpse of her reflection on the newly shining spoon and slams it down in frustration.

* * *

Hawke spends the majority of her time in the courtyards. She likes the open air. She misses hiking mountains, the smell of the nearby ocean, the scent of fresh grass after a rainstorm. Bethany and Carver were there, then. So was Merrill.

Will Merrill ever understand? Hawke paces the grounds considering the question. The massive gold crow statues watch her ominously. There's a bench and she moves through a circuit of exercises working her arms until they wobble and burn.

She follows it with laps around the courtyard until the heat becomes unbearable and sweat runs down her body. She's grateful to be able to train. Being a soldier in Cailan's army required constant exercise. Her first two years in Kirkwall never left her idle. Since the expedition there's been little to do and she's been restless. Wiping her hands on her pant legs she takes a few strides around the courtyard, her heart hammering.

_If you must do this you'll at least keep an eye out for a suitable templar, won't you? Aveline had Wesley._

The comment irritated her but it's a start. Her mother is talking to her again. After months of blame she's grateful to return to old (and only barely less trying) topics of conversation.

_You'll visit. Please say you will. Oh, darling, it just feels as if I'm losing too many of you all at once. I hate to impose—_

_It's no imposition, Mother._

It is, of course. Taking the boat to Lowtown takes some time in itself. Hurrying to Hightown to visit before returning to Lowtown so as not to miss the boat back is an inconvenience to say the least. That said, her mother has fond memories of the newly bought estate. She sees memories where Hawke sees a skeleton of a home, bare and absent of the flesh and soul that should occupy it. They should have never come to Kirkwall.

"You don't say much," Knight-Commander Meredith says, "but I hear others whisper of you." She steps into the courtyard, the sun seeming to make her glitter.

Hawke resists shielding her eyes and goes to her, not sure if she should wipe the sweat from her face. She raises the bottom of her shift and mops some of it up. The cold air that hits her stomach is like a blessing. Hawke lowers the shift and brings a closed fist to the opposite shoulder, bowing slightly. The Knight-Commander allows her a suggestion of a smile in acknowledgement of the salute. She raises a vial of lyrium between thumb and index finger. Hawke tenses. She waits.

"There is a misconception that tranquil mages are nothing but soulless dolls. This misconception is prevalent even among the Templar Order, I'm sad to say." She turns the vial of lyrium in her hand, letting her fingers swallow it before looking at Hawke. Hawke fights back a smile. The Knight-Commander knows magic tricks? "They are the same as you and I with the exception that they are mages and have the utmost control over their senses. I trust tranquil mages a great deal. They are logical and efficient. They keep an eye on templars as much as we keep an eye on our charges. How do you see them?"

The courtyard is a perfect square, the golden crow statues shining brightly in the sun. There is nothing to bring into order here. It is usually reassuring. She tries to imagine her father or Bethany as one of those things. No, not things. Creatures. No, one of those persons. "I'm afraid I'm not used to them." They remind her of the terrible fate that her family may have befallen to. That perhaps Bethany has succumbed to.

"Adapt." Meredith says. She takes another step closer. They are separated by less than a foot in a courtyard that could easily fit over a five hundred bodies. Hawke stares at a tuft of grass that grows between the stone ground. "After hearing of your exploits I imagined a bolder woman coming to the Templar Order. Or is it only me you cannot face?"

Hawke lifts her face to look at her. Meredith stands even taller than her. It's rare for a woman to do that. They look at one another for a long time. Hawke feels the sun burning at the back of her neck. She could move but she doesn't. Hawke has never seen anyone who shines like Meredith. Everything about her is impeccable. There is never a hair that's out of place, her armor is always in order, pristine. Hawke sees her face, red and sweaty and scarred in the steel bound to her and lets her eyes come to rest on Meredith's again. She isn't sure she could tear her gaze away quickly if she desired to. "Have I gazed at you long enough to restore your confidence?"

Meredith's lips lift gently at the corners. "As to the reason I came here…" she produces the lyrium vial again. "Elsa has informed me that you have been… giving with your lyrium allotment. Ser Landry has been fool enough to overindulge and as such has resorted to desperate means to feed his…" Meredith considers, "embarrassing and detrimental habit. _He_ is out of control. He will be dealt with." Hawke thinks of the former Templar, Samson. What a shell of a man he'd been. "You're new and you likely don't know any better. What lyrium you get is for you and you alone. You will not share it; you will not horde it. As you may or may not know lyrium is carefully monitored. It is as essential for our templars as mana is to mages." Hawke wonders how it is that the liquid templars must ingest to stop magic is the same as what mages must use to refuel, to make their powers stronger. It seems… contradictory. "If we are to stand a chance against our charges, if we are to protect them and the citizens of Kirkwall we must drink it. It is necessary for having both utmost control of ourselves and the battlefield."

Meredith passes it over and their fingers brush. Meredith's touch is cool and soothing. "I apologize, Knight-Commander. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't, Hawke. I've seen it before and I'll likely see it again. Excessive kindness kills, no matter how noble our aim." For a moment she's somewhere else faraway. Hawke wonders where she's gone but an instant later she's back, nodding at the lyrium vial, her suggestion clear. Hawke uncaps it and drinks, feeling refreshed the moment it hits her tongue. Is there a chantry service somewhere? She hears what sounds like singing in the distance.

* * *

The Circle is tense. Mages have escaped. There are losses on both sides. Tasks have been assigned. The more seasoned templars are to corral and interrogate mages to see who knew of the plot to escape, who thought of joining them. Others must investigate what was lost, what was taken and write and deliver the appropriate reports.

New to the Order, Hawke has volunteered to clean the blood from the room and hallways. It was one of the few duties that she _could_ take on and she hates to stand idly by. The other recruits looked far too pale and queasy to undertake the task. There are angry and suspicious whispers everywhere, from the rooms of the mages to the templars who stand helmeted in the hallways.

Hawke carries a large bucket of scalding water (heated by an annoyed mage) to the room. The blood is splattered on the wall in arcs, staining the bookshelves, spread in a pool over the carpet and onto the stone floor. From her understanding, the blood belongs to both templar and mage. Certainly nothing she could ever tell apart. Maybe Merrill could.

Several people walk by, mages and templars, peering in nervously or with anger. "I'll have this cleaned up soon," she tells those who linger worriedly to stare. When she tries to shut the door she comes face to face with Ser Otto Alrik. He grabs tight hold of her arm and slams her into a wall. Her back immediately begins to throb painfully. "What's your problem?"

"You're my problem, Hawke." His eyes are the palest she's ever seen. There are templars she's met who frighten her as much as any Tranquil. Try as she might she can see nothing behind their eyes. Who are these soulless bastards? Can't the Templar Order do better? Maybe she's paranoid. Maybe she's used to being in charge. She doesn't like being told what to do. For the last six years she's had to take care of everything. Maybe she isn't as adept at following orders as she might have imagined. "The door remains open. This will be a warning."

"It's only making people angry and paranoid," she fires back. His hold on her arm tightens. She'll have another bruise yet. He always finds her when she isn't in armor. "Do we want to seed unrest in the Circle? Doesn't that go against our vows?" The last gets her backhanded soundly across the face. The metal armguard and glove he wears makes her face instantly numb before it pulses with her quickly racing heartbeat.

"You're awfully opinionated for a recruit. When a Knight-Lieutenant deigns to speak to you, the correct course is to keep quiet and be grateful for their guidance." Alrik squeezes her arm tighter. Hawke clenches her jaw and glares at him. "Are we clear?"

"Clear, Ser Alrik."

His smile is like a knife. "Good. You don't impress me, Hawke. Mouth off to me again and you'll get another scar across that pretty face of yours." He pushes her into the wall again and heads to the door. Knight-Commander Meredith stands there. Hawke doesn't know how long she's been there but her face heats, tears of frustration threatening to spring from her eyes. "Knight-Commander," Hawke sees him bow to Meredith from the corner of her eye before moving on his way.

Hawke pushes away from the wall, fists clenched tightly. She wants to close the door and trash everything, a desire that goes against everything she has ever wanted, everything she has ever exacted on any space she's visited. Still, the Knight-Commander stands by the door looking at her. Hawke attempts to strip the anger from her face but it takes a tremendous effort to stop pacing. She stops near the front of the door, jaw locked and pounds a hand to her chest in salute. Meredith walks into the room and shuts the door.

The leather of her glove is soft and moves delicately along her lip and chip, wiping the blood away. Only then does Hawke taste it on her lips and mouth.

She thinks of Merrill but doesn't know why.

Meredith skims the bloodied disaster of a room and looks back at Hawke. She settles her hands on her shoulders. "Get a hold of yourself," she says soft and steady. Hawke stares at her but can't get her breathing under control. "Long, slow breaths. Exhale slowly."

Hawke tries, following Meredith's lead until she feels some calm move over her, until the anger slowly recedes. Until she closes her eyes and bows her head. Meredith's gloved hand glides delicately along her forehead like a benediction. When Hawke opens her eyes again she's calm.

Meredith releases her. "Finish this," she indicates the room. "I want it to look just as it did before…this incident." She closes the door upon her exit.

* * *

The room is immaculate when Hawke finishes. The blood is gone from the walls and bookshelves, removed from the stone after many scrubbings on hands and knees with a firm brush. Hawke searches the room and finds dots on the wooden frame of the bed. She wipes those away as well. She doesn't know who will get the room next but she'd hate to think of some poor frightened apostate finding blood in their new quarters. She has to be thorough.

The only problem is the rug. It's impossible to save no matter how she scrubs at it. The blood has long settled. Her hand comes away red when she presses down on it.

She rolls it up and drags it out, ignoring the stares of the Templars. There are two tranquil mages, the seal of the chantry burned onto their foreheads, wiping at the walls. Hawke doesn't recognize them but they would be attractive were it not for their blank, absent expressions. One of the templars slaps the other across the chest when a tranquil bends over to dip a sponge in the bucket, their helmeted heads follow her movements.

"I'll take over from here," Hawke says. The tranquil turn their expressionless faces towards her. "I was supposed to do it. The room took longer than I anticipated." She drops the rug to a corner and takes the bucket and sponge from them. Tranquil have the utmost control over themselves, Meredith says, but can't too much control be… detrimental? Would they fight back at the hands of injustice? Or would they recognize how much easier it would be to not resist?

"Very well," the tranquil say in unison, moving along.

The templars cross their arms. "You could stand to help," Hawke says irritably to them. "Don't you get bored of doing nothing? I'd go mad," she mutters.

"It's our job to watch mages. Not clean their blood and guts off the walls," says one.

"You weren't watching very well, were you?" Hawke returns.

"Shut it, recruit," says the other. Hawke doesn't know who they are. She doesn't recognize their voices. She hasn't met every templar. How frightening must it be to be a mage, kept caged by faceless men in iron suits? They're not all like this. She knows that. Most of them are good men and women. Thrask is good. Cullen is good. Keran. And Knight-Commander Meredith… if she closes her eyes she can still feel the whisper of her touch along her forehead and lips. "Alrik wants it to be a message. It'll be a bloody message."

Hawke squeezes the red sponge into the pink water, crimson running in strands between her fingers. "Bloody blight Alrik." She grumbles. Not a moment later she sees the loom of his bald shadow painted on the wall before her, lit by the torches on sconces.

"Really, Hawke. You're determined to make me not like you." The cold metal grip of his gloved hand settles behind her neck and the next instant, everything has gone black.

* * *

Her face is pressed uncomfortably to the floor, oily shadows moving around her, glinting steel boots taking on a golden glow with the flicker of torches. Her head throbs. The sponge is barely out of reach. Muffled voices surround her. Recognizable voices, male and female.

_She is...mage sympathizer… unfit for the Order… _

_How the…do you intend on thwarting the dangers of magic when …. our own Order? Recruitment is down, Alrik, there are mage… everywhere… If you must look… not here and not again! Do you understand?_

Hawke groans. Cullen pulls her to her feet. Her forehead is bleeding. Another scar, she wonders? The rug is rolled up against the wall. She reaches for it even as Cullen wraps an arm around her waist. Not finished. She's not finished. She tries to tell Cullen but can't get the words out. Her head feels fuzzy. A sleepy anxiety begins to blanket over her.

She closes her eyes and sees Merrill sitting before a skeleton of a mirror. A knife is thrust into her bleeding hand. She looks too intently into the cracked mirror that doesn't reflect. Then, she turns her head as if to look at her. Merrill says her name. Hawke stumbles forward and feels a slap gently on her face. "Don't fall asleep," comes Cullen's voice.

Merrill is gone. Maybe it was a dream. A quick dream. She wants to fall into it again.

Her vision swims. She hears a stream of obscenities. With effort she glances back. Alrik kicks over the bucket of water, spilling red down the hallways. Knight-Commander Meredith moves purposefully, angrily? into another direction.

* * *

Hawke sits unsteadily in a chair in a dark study and waits. Everything spins. Her head feels as if it's about to crack open. Maybe it is. She looks around the room. Tomes. Many tomes. Merrill would like it here. Maybe there's something here that could help her. What _is_ helping Merrill? Is it helping her with her blood magic? Stopping her from using blood magic? It used to be clear but nothing feels clear right now.

Maker, thinking about her is almost enough to hear her voice in her mind, her touch on her face.

Eventually the door opens, blowing a gust of wind into the room that nearly extinguishes the candles. Cullen, who had been holding a hand to her shoulder to keep her as steady as he could, departs. A pale man with ashy hair walks in. "Who's this?" he asks Meredith who entered behind him. He doesn't bother hiding his displeasure.

"A new recruit."

"This is why you drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?" He grabs a chair and slams it down in front of Hawke, the sound of the chair hitting the floor makes her head feel as if it will split. "Why didn't you bring her earlier with the others?"

"This is a separate incident."

Orsino looks heatedly behind Hawke. Hawke tries to keep her eyes open but feels tired. Her ears are ringing. She doesn't know why she's here. She remembers kneeling on a floor and cleaning a room. She remembers Meredith taking a hold of her shoulders. "I suppose I should be reassured that a mage isn't involved. You'd never let me hear the end of it if they were." He takes a hold of Hawke's face. Oh. He's an elf. Does he know Merrill?

"Do not think to lecture me, Orsino. Lest we forget, it was mages who did the majority of the killing today. Three templars are dead, lost to mages reckless desire for a freedom they can't even think to understand."

Orsino lifts a finger and moves it from side to side. Hawke tries to follow it but can't keep up with it. She tries to look behind her. All she catches is a glimpse of templar armor and golden hair, lips set almost petulantly. Hawke can't stop looking at her. "Pay attention," the elf grouses. Hawke looks at him, seeing several of him before they settle into one. "She has a concussion."

Meredith swears under her breath. Hawke thinks to apologize but he distracts her, pressing his hands to her face, thumbs along her forehead, squeezing as if to keep her together. The throbbing begins to quell and soon the pain is gone. How's Bethany, she wonders.

"If this is that templar I keep hearing about," Orsino says, "you'd best handle it. Do not continue to waste my time on this. Maybe it means nothing to you when it's the mages he harasses, but hopefully your own coming under attack will be enough to provoke action on your behalf."

"Do not think to know what the cause of this was. The day has not yet arrived when the Knight-Commander takes orders from the First-Enchanter," she says sharply.

Orsino gets to his feet, his robe swirling around him like a shadow. Hawke stands, surprised she can. She takes Orsino's hands in her own. She's clear headed again. "Thank you. I'll try not to be a nuisance in the future."

The surprise in his eyes, like that of an unexpected kindness, is sharp and startling.

* * *

Meredith is in her study, agitatedly rifling through the reports on Alrik when she spots Hawke lingering in the hallway. At least she isn't bleeding anymore. Hawke enters without invitation and Meredith thinks to lecture her on courtesy, formalities but she doesn't.

Hawke half-closes the door. "That couldn't have been easy," she says. Meredith looks at her. "Things seem…strained between you and the First Enchanter."

"It is rare that First Enchanters and Knight-Commanders see eye-to-eye. Don't let the propaganda of enraged mages from other Circles tell you otherwise. Orsino is as radical of a First Enchanter as they come. Everywhere he looks he sees persecution." Yet the man is happy to turn a blind eye to the mage corruption anywhere the eye can see. She throws down the stack of papers and runs her fingers through her hair. "Knight-Captain Cullen can tell you how a Templars kindness is repaid by mages." She allows a moment and sits. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now."

Meredith glances at a peculiar hourglass on her desk. The red lyrium dust that spirals down has a glow. Hawke looks at it, mesmerized. Meredith observes her stopping shy of the moment when her gaze might be considered inappropriate. "I know how you leave the Gallows every day. What is so pressing?"

Her expression startles, clouds and quickly clears. "It's what Mother likes."

"Is it what you like?" Meredith asks. Most Templar recruits spend their time in the Gallows, training. Hawke trains more than the others she would wager but she begins hours before. Always, she seems in a hurry. Always, she looks over her shoulder. Does she fear mages? She acts as they do. "I know men and women of the Order go to the Blooming Rose. I'm not _stupid_. _That_ I understand. I may not indulge in it myself but I understand it. Are you truly visiting your mother?"

"I'm not going to the Blooming Rose," she says lightly.

Meredith frowns. That seems like a greater perversion. "You're a grown woman, Hawke. These visits of yours are interfering with your training. We are not an Order of One. Make your own way and stop living for your mother." Yes. She remembers always wanting to please her mother and father. What did it get her but her family and village slaughtered? _Get under there, hurry, Amelia!_ Hiding her sister beneath trap doors. A mother's guidance can lead a soul astray, no matter the intentions. She thinks of a home drenched in blood. She doesn't shake it away. She holds on to it as a reminder.

"I don't agree that it's interfering with my training."

"Ser Otto Alrik does agree," Meredith is pleased when Hawke's body stands straighter, muscles going tight. Was it only hours ago that Hawke was incensed at Alrik? Just as Meredith was at the coup orchestrated by the mages. They lost good templars tonight. Templars who were only trying to serve the Circle and Kirkwall. "He has provided lengthy reports. All damning." Hawke looks to bite her tongue. "Speak."

"I would say if my reports are lengthy then his should be longer still." Hawke looks at the objects on her desk and clasps her hands behind her back. Meredith lets the silence sink in. Hawke fidgets. "He's wrong."

"It is not a recruit's place to make that judgment." Meredith moves around the desk and crosses her arms. "You surprise me. When I saw you at my door minutes ago I thought this would be about Alrik. You're very polite given that he just smashed your head into a wall. I was sure you arrived to lodge a complaint. Have you?"

Hawke stares at the floor and then at Meredith. She takes a breath. "If I were here to lodge a complaint then that complaint must also be lodged against you." Meredith's jaw tightens. "I have nothing to say that you don't already know. Those who despise templars need only look at Alrik and what is allowed in this Order to be proven right."

"The matter is being addressed." She says more sharply than she intends. She has designated Cullen to talk to him. The last thing she needs is an angry templar thinking she's siding with a recruit. There are more urgent matters to take care of and Alrik is a petty and sometimes childish man. "I've asked Knight-Captain Cullen to oversee the investigation. You cleaned up of what was left of our murdered brothers and sisters this evening. Alrik is aggressive but certainly you've handled worse in your dealings. There are more pressing matters at stake. Don't you agree?"

"I do."

"But?"

"Isn't this sort of investigation usually handled by the Seekers?"

Meredith doesn't react. Hawke has been reading diligently indeed. "This matter is not worth their time," she says simply though she doesn't know that that's true. Alrik is a small and irrelevant matter in the grand scheme of things. "Alrik has been here for many years. His methods are not my own. They are, however, effective. You appear to me an effective woman."

"Not as effective as the Order would allow. He hits me because I cannot hit back. If I could without jeopardizing my standing here he would not think to hit me again." Her eyes are dark. "The means are everything. And with all due respect, Knight-Commander, it is your duty to set the tone. It is your duty to create order."

"There is order. Whether you agree that there is or not." Meredith watches her flinch. There's a beat. Normally she'd be incensed if someone dared to speak to her in such a way. Perhaps she's grateful to see a strong woman who isn't in a robe, to see a woman who wield swords as dangerously as men. Meredith had not known she yearned for like-minded company. "It may appear to you as if injustice is allowed. You have not been here long. You have not seen what we have seen. Some of the men are suspicious. Surely you can understand Alrik's concern. You come from a family rich in mage blood."

Hawke's lip twitches. "Surely I cannot be the only templar with magic in my bloodline." She doesn't quite smile but there is a touch of scorn in her mouth. Meredith wonders if she knows about Amelia. No, she cannot know. Meredith makes herself turn from her mouth. "I'm here. I know of no other way to prove myself." She considers. "I don't give a damn what Alrik thinks of me."

"You should," Meredith says icily.

Hawke continues undeterred. "Let the other templars squawk. Yours is the only opinion that matters."

Ultimately that is true. "Why?"

"Aren't you the one in charge of this city?"

"I am the Knight-Commander," Meredith says plainly, "not the Viscount. I have a reputation for being a hard woman. Directness, discipline and calculation get results. Perhaps over the years I've grown soft with the members of my Order. I cannot obsess over small infractions when there are much greater dangers to be kept at bay." Hawke's face is expressionless. " You don't complain. You are allowed."

"Somehow I don't think you'd like that," she says with a faint smile before sobering again. "The Templar Order is honorable. I would like for it to remain that way. I would have no part of an organization that is as corrupt as the mages we hunt." She clears her throat. "However, I have little power over such matters and I know it does not behoove me to speak out of turn. My intention isn't to step on toes."

"Sometimes you have to step on toes to get what you want." Meredith cocks her head to look at her. "What is it that you want, Hawke?" She only gets silence in response. "I wager you want order. And I wager you want to live a life of your own design. Tell me— how does running home to mommy every night help that?" Hawke is still. "I've been too lenient on Alrik. I've been too lenient with you. If you will continue to train, you will do so here. You can't live a life in both worlds. Not when you're being molded into a templar. It creates... confusion and weakness."

Hawke swallows. "With all do respect, Knight-Commander... You make me feel just the same."

Meredith hadn't expected the words. She observes her. Hawke's eyes are steady. In the weeks she has spent in the Gallows she has learned not to look away from her. Meredith cups her face. It warms to the touch. Hawke inhales slowly. "You have the most peculiar eyes," Meredith says. She traces the scar along Hawke's eyebrow, finger trailing down until it touches along her upper lip. The air has gone from the room. Hawke's eyes burn.

Hawke erases the small distance between them, clasping Meredith's lips with her own, trembling against hers. How long has it been since she's been this warm? How long since she's had a lover? The thought of having Hawke for one crosses her mind and makes her body ache. She doesn't return the kiss.

Hawke steps back, strangely colored eyes averted. Meredith grasps the back of her neck, massaging the tension that builds there. "That's all for now," Meredith keeps her back to her.

"Knight-Commander," Hawke breathes softly.

Meredith doesn't turn around until she's gone.


End file.
